


He's A Rebel

by Usedtobehmc



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Usedtobehmc/pseuds/Usedtobehmc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TF2 AU fic.  *COMPLETE*</p><p>René teaches French at a private school in a small, well-to-do American town.  One day, an Australian man named Mundy rolls into his life on a motorcycle and generally annoys the hell out of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can buy this book! Super cheap, includes a beautiful cover, less spelling errors, and different names so yours truly does not get sued. If you have a few dollars lying around, please consider buying, "He's A Rebel."
> 
> http://www.amazon.com/Hes-Rebel-Jen-Ringwald/dp/1500918555/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1421256510&sr=8-6&keywords=he%27s+a+rebel

The humming of the motorcycle’s engine is driving René absolutely crazy. Not to mention, it’s distracting his students.  The boys who sit near the windows are attempting to surreptitiously glance over their shoulders to get a peek at who drove a motorcycle into their school’s parking lot, and the ones too far too see are glancing at each other and whispering.  

It wouldn’t have been such an annoyance if the damn thing would just leave, but whoever stopped it there has been sitting outside with the engine on for five straight minutes.  And as anyone can tell you, 5 minutes during study hall can seem like an eternity.  

René knows that if he doesn’t get his class under control, they’ll be jittery and distracted for the rest of the period.  He has to put the fear in them again.  He stalks to the window and peers down at the parking lot to see that the man with the motorcycle is studying a road map with not a care in the world for anyone else’s peace and quiet.  

"Asseyez-vous," he barks at the boy who is leaning out of his chair to sneak a peek.  Not like he blames the children, a motorcycle was not something you saw every day in this town.  Scooters, maybe.  The occasional Vespa.  Not real motorcycles.  

"Stay seated, class."  René orders as he leaves the classroom, fully aware that they won’t.  

He thinks of all the things he’s going to say to this rude man, all the curt phrases and serious demands he can make of a complete stranger.  He’s no shrinking violet, he’s not intimidated by confrontation (some would venture to call him  _very_ confrontational), but the inherent danger in approaching a stranger with a complaint makes his heart beat just a little faster.  

It’s a beautiful Autumn day, a perfect day for a ride on a motorcycle, René has to admit to himself.  The air is cool, the trees are beautiful to look at and make the air smell crisp and earthy and clean.  It does nothing for his mood; he’s got a good cranky energy going now, and this inconsiderate cretin will feel the brunt of it.

The man appears tall even though he’s still seated, inspecting the road map like it will lead to buried treasure, and doesn’t hear René approaching from behind him.  

"Pardon me," he begins, wincing in annoyance at the deafening putter of the bike’s engine.  " _Excuse m-_ -”  But it’s clear that a polite introduction will not be loud enough.  

He reaches out and taps the man rather hard on the back, feeling the bone of the man’s shoulder-blade even through the thick black leather motorcycle jacket.  

The stranger jumps a mile, letting out a short, sharp exclamation of surprise, although it’s barely audible over the engine.  He gives René a glare that could freeze a rampaging elephant and grips his chest with one hand while he turns off the engine with the other.  

The horrific noise abates only to be replaced by the sound of the man’s… accent.

"Christ, mate.  Nearly gave me a heart attack!  Can’t just sneak up on a bloke like that!  What are you, some kind of bloody spy?"  

Besides the grating nuances of his accent, René can’t help but think that the man looks like a horse.  He has a long face with a noticeable underbite.  And he’s thin.  Very thin, in fact.  The tight blue jeans he wore illustrated that quite clearly.  

"Which brings me to why I came out here.  Your… bike was disturbing my students.  I would ask that you keep it off until you’re ready to leave."

"Your what?"

"My students.  This is a school you’ve parked in front of." He gestures behind him and speaks slowly, as if to an infant.  

"School?  I thought this was the Conagher estate…" He looks back at his map.  

"No, that’s about 5 miles away.  You haven’t gotten there yet, though if you continue on the main road you should get there in just a few minutes."  René rolls his eyes, this is taking far longer than he thought it would.

"What sorta accent is that?  You’re not from here."  The man folds his map, seemingly content to believe René’s directions.  

"Pft.  I could say the same thing about you," he snips.

"From Australia myself.  Taking a little road-trip," He beams and pats the motorcycle’s handle bars.  "Crossing America from California to New York.  Seeing the sites, meetin’ the people, sort of an adventure, y’know."  He looks absurdly proud of himself, and René can’t help but notice the meager possessions the man has rolled up and secured to the back of the bike.

"Hm.  Yes, well.  I must get back to my students—"

"Where’d you say you were from?"

René sighs.  ”I didn’t.  France.  I am from France.  I teach in this school,” he gestures again.  ”And I must get back to my students if you don’t mind.  I only came out to ask that you turn your engine off.”

"What do you teach?"

My god, the man could absolutely not read social cues.  ”French.  Now, Mr…”

"Mundy.  But my friends call me The Sniper."  He holds out a gloved hand and René shakes it with no small amount of reluctance.  

"I’m sure they don’t call you that,"  he coughs.  "My name is René, and I must be going.  Goodbye."  He turns on his heel and stalks back towards the school.

"So long, Spy."  He hears Mundy call after him.  He whirls around, ready to ask just what was meant by that nickname, but Mundy is already kickstarting the engine back up.  

He roars out of the parking lot with a flourish, speeding down the road at an alarming speed until he’s gone from sight, leaving only a small rubber burn on the pavement.

"Fool is going to kill himself driving like that on these roads."  René grumbles.  He glances up and sees all 14 of his students bolt from view from where they had previously stood, peering out the window to eavesdrop on the exchange.  

.

.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

René sighs as he looks over the latest batch of exam scores from his 8A group.  High grades from his studious pupils as usual, lower grades from the boys who were bright but didn't put forth the effort.  And as usual, Thomas' grades confound him.  The boy is intelligent, anyone can see that.  Homework and work done during class is always top-notch.  Perfect verb conjugation, his sentence structure is improving every day… even the boy's pronunciation is a cut above the rest.  Thomas is a late bloomer, but friendly and sociable.  It seems that he truly enjoys learning and speaking a different language.

But put anything in front of him with the word "test" on it, and he flounders.  Every single time.  René is quite familiar with the concept of not testing well, but what is he supposed to do?  The school requires that he test the students, and he can't just go to the board and say "trust me on this one."  

Now alone in his classroom, René hears the final bell and the ensuing floor-shaking exodus of students to the open air and leans back in his seat, vowing to try to come up with some sort of solution to this problem later.  

He'll simply have to test the boy a different way.  Perhaps an un-timed test after school?  Perhaps a spoken exam, a one-on-one display of skills would relieve the pressure…

He'll have to sell that one to the Dean, who doesn't much care for unconventional methods of education.  That will be an extremely fun conversation, he laments.  

He packs some essays and homework that still need to be graded into his briefcase and retrieves his hat and coat from the coatrack in the corner.  He very much needs a nice cup of coffee.

 

*****

 

"Yo Teach!"  The nickname is bellowed from the end of the hallway, and René groans, turning to face the student that the other teachers have affectionately deemed "Scout."  

"Mr. Ahearn, I have repeatedly told you to call me Mr. Bellamy.  Not 'Teach'."

Scout reels dramatically, pretending to choke.  "Ugh, don't call me Mr. Ahearn, it sounds so stuffy.  Blech, anyway!  Check it out!"  He whips a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket and thrusts it at René, bouncing with anticipation.  René takes it from the boy with two fingers and inspects the scribblings on it.  It's a history exam from Mikhail Andopov's class.  On the top of the page, written in fat, red letters is 'C+'.  Next to it is a note, ' **Good job, little man!!!!'**  

René can't help but smirk.  Everyone is little compared to that hulk of a man.  

"I got a C!"  Scout proclaims, hands raised to the ceiling in victory.  "Not only that, a C _plus_.  Know what that means?"

"You are slightly above average?"  René asks coolly.  

"Hell yeah!" Scout snatches the paper back, smoothing out the wrinkles.  "I'm showin' my Ma this thing later, she's gonna flip her lid.  Oh yeah, but anyway,"  He shoves the paper back into his back pocket.  "I uh just wanted to say thanks for showing me that study thing.  Keeny… keno…"

"Kinesthetic studying," René supplies.  

"Yeah, yeah!  I made these flash cards, see.  Sometimes I drew pictures on 'em.  Anyway, I'll do that next time, just in case.  Ma said if got an 'A' on something she'd think about getting us a dog.  I want a big pit-bull dog so my brothers won't take my dessert anymore."

If René doesn't put a stop to this conversation, Scout will keep talking undeterred for the next 20 minutes.  "Alright, well Mr. Ahearn, congratulations on your newfound passion for history.  Enjoy your weekend."  He pats the boy semi-affectionately on the shoulder and brushes past him with long strides, beating a hasty retreat.

"Okay, cool, see ya Teach!"

 

*****

 

René tosses his briefcase into the passenger's seat of his car and pulls out of the school's parking lot, rolling the windows down and letting the chilly air permeate the car and rustle his hair.  

The weather report on the radio says it will probably get down to 30 degrees tonight as a cold front moves in from the north.  Winter isn't too far off, but they should still have some pleasant days yet before that happens.  

He passes the Conagher estate on his way into town and glances out the window at it as he passes, though he doesn't know what he expects to find.  The outer gates are closed and locked and he can't really see past them, so he shrugs to himself and refocuses on the road.  

 

*****

 

The Town of Teufort is one of the most affluent in the state.  The people who live here have money, either old or new, but they have it and they like to show it off.  The school René works for is a private, all-boys school that prides itself on how many of its students move on to Ivy-league schools and careers pre-planned by doting parents.  The houses are beautiful and scenic, the people are well-dressed and calculating.  

The town's main street is meticulously maintained and decorated, resembling something you'd see on a postcard.  Actually, he remembers a few photographers who have actually put pictures of their town on postcards, so he supposes the simile is redundant.  

René pulls to a stop when he finds a good parking space a few blocks away from his favorite coffee shop.  It's small and locally owned, and one of René's favorite things to do is order one of their French roasts with a chocolate biscuit (he refuses to call it a cookie) and settle in one of the overstuffed chairs by the window while he grades papers.  

When he walks in, he's happy to see that his favorite barista is behind the counter, studiously arranging the pastries.  "Hi Mr. Bellamy!"  She chirps, and immediately sets to the task of toasting a cookie and hand-grinding the beans for his coffee.  

René smiles at her and inhales deeply, absorbing all the combined coffee smells that wash over him.  When he looks for a seat his eyes settle on a tall, lanky man in a leather jacket asleep in one of the overstuffed chairs by the window, and the smile falls from his face.  

He's utterly confused and looks around to see if anyone has noticed that this is happening or if he's just imagining it.

He slowly wanders to the counter, keeping a wary eye on the Australian drifter.  The man is clearly dead to the world; his glasses obscure his eyes but the relaxation is clear on his face.  His head droops only slightly towards his chest and his hands are crossed over his middle, relaxed.  There is a half-finished mug of coffee on the table in front of him, cold.  

"Shu…" he begins, and the young Barista pauses to come closer.   "What is… this?"  he makes a vague gesture towards the sleeping man.

"Weird, huh?  I gave him a cup of coffee and then he pretty much fell right to sleep.  If my boss was in today he'd be kicked out already.  But I dunno, he looked so tired I don't have the heart to disturb him.  And we're not too busy today, so I don't think anyone minds.  I like his jacket though, so cool!"  She smiles and retrieves his cookie from the toaster just as the coffee finishes brewing.  The smell is heavenly and René can feel tension melt away from his shoulders as he takes in the sweet aroma.  

He tips generously and chooses another corner of the coffee shop, making sure he can keep the stranger in his line of vision, though he can't pin down exactly why he's so intrigued by him.  

Probably just the strangeness of something new happening.  If there was one thing to be said about Teufort, it was consistently… consistent.  Nothing much changed and that was purposeful.  The town council kept everything pretty, decent, and calm.  If René was completely honest with himself, it was the reason he settled here.  

He's interrupted from his thoughts when the sound of the bell over the shop's door twinkles, announcing the arrival of the town's sheriff, Jane Doe.  He does a visual sweep of the shop, spots the sleeping drifter and approaches with his police baton out.  

René does not much care for the sheriff.  He's a bit of a brute, a complete anti-intellectual, and a bully.  But he doesn't say anything as the sheriff closes in on the Australian and nudges a leg with the baton.  Instead, he quiets his own breathing in order to hear the exchange he knows is coming.  

The man… what was his name… Mundy.  Mundy startles awake and takes in the sight of a police officer looming over him.  He raises his hands, palms out, but makes no move to get up.  "What can I do for you, mate?"

"I have received a complaint that a dangerous vagrant is sleeping in a public area, and I've come to tell you to move along, son."  He answers sharply, poking Mundy in the chest with the baton.

Mundy smiles good-naturedly, but René knows restrained anger when he sees it.  "Wasn't asleep, mate.  Just restin' my eyes.  And I'm not dangerous, just dangerously good-looking."  He smirks, but it fades when he sees it has no effect on the officer.  "And I ain't a vagrant, either.  Just passing through."

"You wanna get into semantics with _me_ , son?  This is private property and you are not welcome here."  Another poke with the baton.

René glances around the coffee shop an sees that the other patrons are studiously ignoring the exchange, some sipping their drinks with their eyebrows raised as if to say, "good riddance."  All except for Shu, who stands behind the counter looking disappointed and sympathetic.  

"Look mate," Mundy begins again, clearly exasperated.  

"Son, you call me your mate one more time and we will have a problem."

Mundy takes a deep breath.  " _Friend_ , I just stopped in for a cup of coffee.  I may have dozed off but I'm not loitering--"  

He's cut off when Doe uses his baton to tip over the nearby half-empty coffee cup into Mundy's lap.  If it hadn't already cooled, the traveller could have been badly burned.  As it was, he just stared at the stain on his pants and stood slowly.  

If you asked him later, René would not be able to say why he did it.  

René stands and stalks over, putting on the most pleasant expression he can muster.  "Ah, Mundy!  My friend, I apologize for taking so long in the bathroom, this coffee goes right through me.  Ah, Officer Doe, how are you?  I see you've met my cousin!"  He puts an awkward hand on Mundy's shoulder, clamping down hard as a warning.

"Your cousin?"  Doe glances skeptically between them, taking a step back.

René feels Mundy shaking with pent-up anger but to his credit, he says nothing against the false claim.

"Why yes, you couldn't tell by the accent?"  René smiles, hoping the man will fall for it.

"Hm," Doe clips his baton back onto his belt while he stares at them skeptically.  He sneers,  "Tell your cousin to get a haircut and some decent clothes."  He turns on his heel and exits the shop, back ramrod straight as he marches military style down the street.  

"Wanker," Mundy hisses under his breath and snatches a napkin for his coffee-soaked jeans.  When he looks up again, his expression softens ever so slightly as he remembers himself.  "Oh… I know you.  The Spy."

"René Bellamy."  He holds out his hand and Mundy shakes it tentatively.

"Micky Mundy.  But my friends call me--"

"The Sniper, yes I remember.  You make quite an impression wherever you go, I must say."  

Mundy smiles just a little and rubs the back of his neck.  "Figures, after the day I've had.  Came all this way just to find out that the entire Conagher family is vacationing overseas.  That's what I get for dropping in unannounced, I suppose."  

"Does that mean you're moving on?"

He hesitates, but recovers quickly.  "Yeah, s'pose I'll just keep going with the original plan and all that.  I'm sure I'll be back this way someday…"  His gaze lingers on the sky outside and René gets the distinct impression he's unhappy.  "Well, I guess I'll get moving before someone calls in the National Guard to remove my bike."  He laughs a strained laugh and moves to shake René's hand again.  "Thanks for keeping me from gettin' my head bashed in, mate.  I owe you one."

And with that, he saunters out the door, turning the collar up against the chill and shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.  He turns the corner and is gone again.

René takes a deep breath and sighs for what seems like the hundredth time today.  

He takes his seat again and hopes his coffee hasn't gone too cold to enjoy.  It's around his third sip when he starts to think about the exchange and the details of the man that had gone by unnoticed before.  

Like how he really did look exhausted.  And how Shu had said she 'gave' him a cup of coffee, rather than 'he ordered' one.  How he was obviously upset that the Conagher family was away, as though he'd been counting on their help, or at least their roof for the night.  

"Merde," he whispers to himself, knowing that no good will come from this.  He rises to his feet and rushes out the door after the man, trying to recall which direction he'd gone in and where the motorcycle might be parked.  

He finds Mundy sitting on the motorcycle behind the shops, in an unlit corner of the small parking lot.  Instead of preparing to leave, he's staring at his hands and looking as if there's no rush.  

If you have nowhere to go, why rush anyway?

"Sniper,"  René calls out, and the Australian man looks embarrassed to have been found but happy to hear his old nickname.  "Will you tell me something honestly?"

"Sure, mate.  I owe you one after all."  He barely stifles a yawn.

"Do you have anywhere to go tonight?"

Mundy pauses and averts his eyes.  The answer is obvious, but he says it anyway.  "Nah.  Wouldn't be such a big deal, but…  Got robbed a few weeks back and the money situation… I suppose you could say it's nonexistent."

René frowns and feels a surge of anger within himself.  "Well.  That simply won't do.  Follow my car, you can stay with me until you're sorted."

Mundy balks at the idea.  "I… no, I can't do that mate.  That's… I just wouldn't wanna put you out, it's too much to ask--"

René waves his hand dismissively in the air.  "I have plenty of room.  And besides, what are cousins for?"

Mundy still looks completely taken aback, but he settles back onto his motorcycle and gives a lopsided grin.  "Alright then, lead the way."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

There is a moment walking to his car when René thinks to himself, ' _You have just invited an absolute stranger to stay in your home.  Where you sleep.  Why?  Because he's handsome?  Handsome people can be murderers too, you know_.'

He tells his inner voice to stop being so paranoid and skeptical all the time.  And the man is not handsome; he looks like a horse, so be quiet.  

Not that he dismisses the concern entirely; he's aware that this is not something most people would do and for good reason.  As he looks in the rearview mirror, he wonders what this strange man must think of him; René knows he comes across and stuffy and unfriendly.  He actually doesn't mind that much, because for the most part it's true.  He's very particular, set in his ways, private and he has a short temper coupled with a low tolerance for foolish behavior.  He was astonished, therefore, to discover that he actually enjoyed teaching, a profession that was 99% frustration and ever-changing affronts to his sanity.  

The rumble of the motorcycle's engine behind his car seems quiet than normal; perhaps due to the low speeds they maintain as René keeps a leisurely pace en route to his house.

His house is extremely modest compared to the rest of the town.  It sits perched behind a small garden on a dead-end street at the edge of Teufort, where it's quiet and vehicle traffic is practically nonexistent.  It has two stories, two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a lovely small fireplace in the den and a wrap-around counter in the kitchen.  It isn't grand or showy; rather an unassuming powder-blue house that is his escape from the world.  His solitude and consistency.  

He pulls into the gravel driveway far enough that Mundy can fit his motorcycle as well and keep it off the street.  Mundy cuts the motorcycle's engine and walks it into the driveway, putting the stand down and unbuckling his duffle bag from the back.  

René takes a deep breath.  He hopes that he doesn't end up regretting this.  

 

*******

 

The sun has only just dipped under the horizon when they enter the house, but René can tell that Mundy is almost dead on his feet.  

The initial awkwardness is almost unbearable, so René starts giving instructions as a way to break the tension.

"Come, I'll show you where you'll stay."

"Cheers, mate."  

For a man who looks like such a thug, René thinks, he really is very polite.  

The 'guest room' is on the first floor; it's a small room, really only big enough for one twin mattress and a modest dresser.  There's no closet, only one window, and no personal decorations at all.  The linens are rudimentary and plain, and haven't been disturbed in a long time.  

"I apologize that there's not much to it; I don't entertain company often."  If he was being truthful, he would have said 'ever.'  He actually feels embarrassed and this is what he was afraid of; opening his life to someone who would judge him negatively for being so antisocial just as so many in the past have done.  There's a swell of shame that he feels bubbling in his gut and harsh criticism of his lifestyle comes back to his memory from various colleagues and neighbors.  How he's so solitary, so cold, so alone.

"Mate, after sleeping on rocks for the past 6 weeks, this might as well be the Taj Mahal."  Mundy laughs and sets his duffel bag gently on the floor next to the bed.  He looks at the pillow like it personally saved his life.  

René can't help but chuckle gently at that.  

"Hope you don't think I'm bein' rude, but I… well I haven't had a decent shower since…" Mundy thinks for a moment.

René decides he doesn't want to hear a truthful estimate on that one.  He holds up a hand in understanding.  "I'll get you some towels.  And give me your clothes, I can wash them."  He turns on his heel and heads for the linen closet upstairs.  "Oh," a thought occurs to him and he stops short.  "Do you need a change of clothes?  Just something to sleep in, I don't think anything besides my pajamas would fit you."  He looks skeptically at Mundy's long legs and decides that all of his trousers would definitely hover high around the man's ankles.  

Mundy looks shocked.  "I… uh, I mean if it's not…"

René nods and continues his journey upstairs.  

 

*****

 

While he's upstairs retrieving towels in three sizes and a pair of pajamas, he hears the shower downstairs turn on.  Good, at least he's been saved the trouble of explaining the intricacies of the bathroom.  

He comes back downstairs, knocks lightly on the door of the bathroom and opens it only slightly; enough room to push the towels through the gap and leave them on the cistern of the toilet for Mundy to find when he's done.  He's not sure if Mundy heard him knock, but he shuts the door before his intrusion can be noted.

Time, he thinks, for some dinner.  

Tonight he feels like a simple chicken, rice and vegetables would be suitable.  Plain enough that there's a very small chance his guest will have a problem and still appetizing enough for René to look forward to.  As he passes from the bathroom to the kitchen, he passes the guest room and notices Mundy's leather jacket hanging off the bedpost.  

He shouldn't.  But he does.  

He steps gently into the room and inspects the well-worn garment, his heart beating faster at the idea of snooping.  

The smell of leather has always enticed him; whether it be from a fine pair of Italian shoes, an expensive piece of furniture or a finely crafted valise.  Oh, he used to have the most beautiful valise from England.  Pure poetry, that stitching.  A few of his favorite belts are real leather, they always compliment his suits so nicely.

The leather of Mundy's jacket is black and worn, obviously not cared for in the traditional sense.  There are some cracks and damage to the cuffs, to be expected if it's been worn every day.  There is a large piece of artwork on the back, stitched there by someone who knew what they were doing, even if they weren't classically trained in tailoring.  It's a large depiction of the continent of Australia, with a fiery skull emblazoned across the middle.  Wrapped around the skull and poking through one of its eyeholes is some sort of snake, no doubt a species indigenous to Australia.  

Charming.  

Along the bottom, in a very ornate yet blocky script are the words "Hale's Angels."  The name doesn't ring a bell, but he supposes it shouldn't.  In any case, he appreciates the wordplay.

On the front of the jacket is a name patch that reads "Sniper."  Well at least he wasn't lying about that.  René idly wonders if it's a name he gave himself or one given to him by his peers.  Other smelly, motorcycle-riding, roughnecks with kind eyes and strong hands…  Next to it is a patch that looks like the crosshairs of a rifle.  

René hears the shower stop, and he almost trips over his own feet in his haste to get out of the guest room.  He barely remembers to grab the small pile of laundry on the bed on his way out.  The washing machine and clothes dryer are out on the back porch, and he takes in a breath of fresh air to calm his nerves as he deposits the dirty clothes into the washing machine with a more than modest helping of soap.  

He returns to the kitchen and sets about making dinner.  The rice and vegetables go into a pot of boiling water and they're almost done when he puts two chicken breasts on a skillet.  He lightly seasons them with salt, pepper and a bit of garlic for taste and his mouth waters slightly; there's nothing like garlic to make everything taste good.  He puts a dash of it in the pot of rice and veggies as well.  Couldn't hurt.  He pulls half a lemon out of the fridge to garnish.  

He hears a strange noise from the doorway and realizes Mundy is standing there impersonating the sounds of a trumpet.  "Presenting,"  he affects a posh accent.  "The most well-dressed man in the room."  Mundy affects a dramatic pose and René immediately bursts out laughing.

The pajamas _almost_ fit.  The pants are… fine; they actually reach his ankles enough that the size discrepancy is easy to ignore.  But the shirt ends about an inch above his belly button, leaving a hilariously exposed stripe of flesh that makes him look ridiculous.  And the sleeves stop well above his wrists and it's almost as if he's wearing a child's shirt. 

René clearly underestimated their height difference but he can't stop laughing long enough to apologize.  As he gasps for breath he actually snorts, which sets Mundy off on his own fit of laughter, except his is louder and more barking.  He clutches the wall with one hand and his ribs with the other and René reflects on what it must look like; two grown men giggling so hard they can't speak in the middle of his kitchen.  

Finally René is able to get himself under control, and he wipes an errant tear off his cheek.  "I'm sorry," he chuckles.  "Let me get you a tee-shirt or something."

"Cheers.  I'll watch the food, there.  Make sure it doesn't burn."  Mundy grins, fiddling with the too-small shirt.

 

******

 

"No lie, I think this is the best meal I've had in a long time.  Didn't expect you to cook for me; I had some jerky in my bag."  Mundy, René can tell, is trying his damnedest not to inhale his food like a hoover does dust.  He has decent table manners, though one elbow has been planted right on the table for the entire meal.  To his credit, he did put the napkin in his lap when they sat down.

"Psh,"  René waves a hand.  "It's only chicken.  If I had more supplies, I could fix a meal fit for a king.  Picture a pan-roasted filet mignon with wild mushrooms and a mole sauce.  Or oh, I used to be famous for my grilled cod.  Lightly salted with a side of bell pepper salad.  Or crispy duck breast with snow peas and a sour cherry sauce."  He stops himself before he describes his own perfect menu and realizes that Mundy's mouth is almost hanging open. 

"Jesus, if I was a king, I'd have all those things every day.  You'd be my personal chef.  _Are_ you a chef?"

René tries not to let his expression go too sour, it's not Mundy's fault and he means nothing by it.  "No, I just dabble.  A passion for good taste, is all."

They finish the meal in amicable silence and Mundy insists on clearing the plates, even going so far as to wash them and place them delicately in the drying rack next to the sink.  "Least I can do," he insists.  "Dunno if I made it clear before but I really appreciate this.  Nice meal and a warm bed… s'more than I've had in a while.  So, thanks is all.  Thanks, mate."  

René is actually moved by his heartfelt thanks, but tries to keep it hidden.  "It is nothing.  Pleasant company is always welcome in my home."

 _What_ , screams his inner voice.  _No it's not.  You hate entertaining.  Why are you lying?_

 

*****

 

Mundy excuses himself soon after dinner, citing too many hours on the road in the last week and not nearly enough rest.  They say goodnight and René snags a random book from the shelf on his way upstairs to bed.

This one is about Chicago and all the sights and sounds of its rich, varied nightlife.  

René can hardly focus on it though, and spends too many hours staring at the ceiling and thinking of the man downstairs before he eventually drifts off to sleep.  

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (casual bigotry from a not-nice person in this chapter)

 

 

René doesn't often dream.  When he does, it's of places he'll never visit, sights he'll never see, foods he'll never taste and sounds he'll never hear.  He dreams of wide-open mountain ranges that are green at the bottom and snowy on top.  Of long roads; veins of asphalt cutting through fields of different colored roses and various crops.  Mom 'n' Pop Diners that only serve the greasiest, most delicious crap food you've ever had the pleasure to eat.  The salty wind of the coasts, with a chill that bites your nose and whips at your hair.

René wakes up feeling trapped, and he tosses the covers off the bed in his quest for more air.  

When he sits up he smells breakfast being cooked downstairs, and he hastily dresses in plain jeans and a button down shirt before he cautiously pads down the stairs with wary steps.

Mundy is definitely cooking at his stove, and he seems to have retrieved his dry laundry from the machine on the back porch; his dark blue jeans and plain black t-shirt are a bit tattered and wrinkled but clearly fresh and clean.  He wears a pair of dark yellow aviators as he cooks, carefully tending to whatever he's got going with a spatula.  

René spots tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of the black t-shirt.  Images of solid black animals dancing around his bicep that look like old cave drawings.  They'd been hidden previously by the leather jacket and long-sleeved shirts that René had leant him.  Now, dressed in his own clothes that fit him, Mundy looks comfortable and much more like the man he'd first spotted outside the school yesterday.  

"Morning!"  Mundy salutes him with the spatula.

René glances at the clock; 10am.  He usually doesn't sleep this late, but usually he remembers to set his alarm.  "Good morning," he manages to affect a pleasant tone, unsure as he is about a stranger making himself so comfortable in his home.

"Have a seat, this is just about done."  Mundy spends a moment looking for the correct dishes and utensils, and sets about serving up two helpings of cheese omelette.

René tries not to look too skeptical as he takes the first bite, and then finds his concern was absolutely unwarranted.  "This is quite good,"  he insists, completely earnest.  "Did you whip the eggs with milk?"  He inspects the meal and sees various crumbled herbs meticulously distributed.  

Mundy preens, taking a bite himself.  "I know a thing or two about a thing or two.  Wanted to pay you back for the nice dinner last night and this is really the only thing I know how to make well."  He laughs.  "Eggs are hard to screw up, you just have to not burn 'em."

"Deceptively simple instructions," René says, thinking about all the times he has burned the eggs and spent an hour scraping it off the pan.  

They finish their breakfast, both humming contentedly at the last, flavorful bite.  

"Nothing like a good breakfast before a day of travel," Mundy clears the plates again.

"You're leaving?"  René can't keep the incredulous tone out of his voice.  

"Well… yeah." He says, looking confused.  He spares a quick glance around René's home.  "I thought…" 

"You can't leave," René scrambles for his words, suddenly embarrassed and jittery.  "You said… you were robbed.  You have no money, nothing to survive on.  What happens when you run out of gas?  How will you finish your trip?"

"My… uh.  Dunno, really.  Hadn't given it much thought.  I suppose the kindness of strangers isn't a reliable game plan."  Mundy finishes scraping the plates and places them in the sink.  His brow furrows and for a moment he looks truly lost.  

And then the doorbell rings and René considers not answering it.  He huffs and excuses himself, and he realizes who it is before he opens the door.  He sighs, groans, and steels himself, opening the door with the most pleasant smile he can force onto his face.

"Ah, Helen.  How are you this morning?"

Helen lives down the street from him in a gigantic house fit for an entire family of royalty.  As the reigning member of Teufort's elite, The Widow Helen has more money than God, owns enough land to constitute a national park and is one of the worst people René has ever met.  So according to the laws of the universe, one of her personal goals in life was to get René into bed and under her thumb.  

Helen gives him a saccharine-sweet smile.  "René, darling."  One 'air-kiss' per cheek and she takes his hand, clinging to it like some sort of schoolgirl.  She really is terribly obvious and after over a year of this game, René wonders how long he will have to make it clear he's not interested before she gives up.  

"I wanted to invite you to my church's social picnic tomorrow.  The whole town will be there and I just wanted to make sure you knew you had a special invitation to my table."  She idly strokes his hand with one thumb and René feels extremely uncomfortable.  

His mind races, trying to come up with some sort of excuse that she'll accept.  "As it happens, I'm entertaining a friend this weekend, and I'm not sure I'll have the time."

"Well, invite him along!  Everyone's welcome at the Teufort church, unless he's a _Jew_ of course,"  She cackles at her joke, not even aware that René is not laughing.

In fact, this whole exchange is making him feel like he's 70 years old.  

"Do consider it, darling.  I'll be so sad if you don't come.  You really should get out more, you know how people talk."

Usually the people talking consist of Helen and her minions.  

She casts a suspicious glance at René's driveway.  "Your guest, he drives that thing?"  The motorcycle sits innocently at the end of the driveway, and Helen's lip curls at the sight.  

"Yes, he does."  René hopes that her distaste for motorcycles will inspire her to leave.  Right now, a meteor will be welcome if it will just get her off his porch.  

"Ugh, some people.  No accounting for taste."  She winks conspiratorially and rolls her eyes as if they're sharing a moment of disgust.   "Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow at the picnic."  She squeezes his hand and turns to leave, waving goodbye with a coy smile.  

"Yes, if I have the time, Goodbye Helen,"  he shuts the door quickly, furious for not outright refusing the invitation.  Damn it, she'll make his life miserable if he doesn't show up.  

"She sounds… _awful_ ,"  chuckles Mundy from the dining room.  

"I'm so sorry about that," René groans.  "To put it lightly, she's not the nicest of people.  And to be clear, I don't share her opinion of your motorcycle."

Mundy shrugs.  "What do I care what some old bat thinks of my bike?"

"What were we talking about before?"

"My hopeless situation,"  Mundy gives a lopsided grin.

René sits opposite of him at the dining table and regards him for a moment.  "I think you should stay here.  Until you get on your feet.  Until you can afford to finish your trip and get home."  When he gets no immediate response, he asks, "How much did you lose when you were robbed?"

Mundy takes a deep breath and considers it for a moment.  "At least two grand.  And my custom hunting knife," he tsks.  "And a tooth," He uses a finger to pull back his right cheek, revealing a gap in his upper jaw that René literally hadn't noticed until that moment.

"Mon Dieu!"  René cries, unable to reign in a horrified expression.  He leans in for a closer look and shudders.  "You didn't mention that they beat you!"

"Well that was the only way they were gettin' away with my swag," he replies like it's the most obvious fact in the world.

"You're lucky to be alive, what did you do?"

"There was a free clinic nearby, luckily.  They patched me up and sent me on my way with some lovely painkillers.  Went through them pretty fast.  Barely even notice it's gone, really."  He poked at the gap with his tongue.

"Well, missing teeth notwithstanding, if you are employed you can earn everything you lost back and you'll be able to rent rooms instead of sleeping in parking lots and get beaten up."

Mundy gives him a contemplative look.  "You're suggesting I stay here until that happens?"

"Of course.  Where else would you stay?"

Mundy looks flummoxed at that.  "I… it'll be a while before I can give you rent or anything."

"Make me breakfast when you can.  You make good eggs."

The gruff traveller eyeballs him, a smirk making it's way onto his face.  He looks as though he's about to make a joke, or an observation, but thinks better of it and shifts gears.  "Not too many blokes who would do that for a total stranger.  And it doesn't seem like this town will take too kindly to me wandering around."

"They're allergic to leather jackets.  We'll find you a nice tweed suit and you'll blend right in."

Mundy pretends to retch and dissolves into hyena-like giggles at the thought.  This time, René can't help but notice the missing tooth, exposed by the man's wide smile.  It's actually rather endearing, he thinks.  

Before Mundy is done laughing, René tells himself to stop feeling those feelings immediately.  But he knows himself too well.  

He's been down this road before.

This is the beginning of a crush on an obviously straight man and he has just offered to put him up while he gets back on his feet.  

Good job, René.

Nice work.  

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

With his freshly washed clothes, a clean shave and almost-combed hair, Mundy sets off on his motorcycle to find some sort of employment and René is alone with his thoughts in the house.

Something about today seems different from the last ten years.  He usually spends every day alone with his thoughts… but it's not the same.  

He hopes Mundy has luck finding something.

But he also hopes if he does find a job, it doesn't pay too much… so it will take longer to raise the funds to leave.

It's a terrible and selfish thought to have, but no one has to know about it.  René will keep it his dirty little secret and everything will be fine.  He may as well enjoy the man's company while he's here.  And if he enjoys a little daydream about how life would be if just a few things were different… well that's his business.  And no one can take his daydreams away.

He has a right to his daydreams, damn it.

René putters around the house, straightening up a few things, washing the stray dishes that have migrated throughout the house in the past week and does a little dusting before finally settling down with a glass of white wine and the papers that need to be graded for Monday.  Granted, it's not the most glamorous way to spend a Saturday afternoon, but these things need to be done.  Besides, he has no other plans.  

 

*****

 

It's around 6pm when René hears the tell-tale ruckus of Mundy's motorcycle approaching the house and he almost leaps to the front door to greet him before he tells himself, "You are not a housewife, for God's sake, act natural."

He scrambles for a natural position, which somehow includes him reading a dictionary in his living room like he's never done.

Mundy, bless him, knocks on the front door and waits for René to shout 'come in' before he enters, looking for all the world like that cat that caught the canary.  

"Land of opportunity!"  He proclaims loudly, arms raised in victory.  A small shopping bag dangles from one of his hands.  "I am gainfully but temporarily employed at DeGroot Garage in Port Hull."

René congratulates him and something strikes him as familiar.  "DeGroot?  As in Tavish DeGroot?"

"Yeah, that's the guy.  Quizzed me on some basics and took me on as an assistant mechanic.  Says he could use an extra hand with motorcycles, his strongest point is old cars.  You know him?"

"I teach his son, Thomas.  That's so odd, I would not have thought his father was a mechanic in Port Hull.  The man has quite a bit of money."  

"He likes to work, I suppose.  When you don't have to make money, you do what you love."  Mundy sheds his jacket and puts his shopping bag on the dining room table.  "Didn't take in much cash today, but I did have enough to buy some things…"  He pulls out a bottle of red wine and a package enclosed in wax paper tied with string.  There is also a bundle of spinach and two whole onions.  "Thought maybe I'd buy us a treat and you could fix it up nice," he unwraps the wax paper revealing two perfect cuts of beef.  The color, thickness, and quality of the meat is excellent. 

René feels his heart leap.  Mundy got him… a gift.  A gift that he was now expected to cook, but surely the quality of the food was meant as a compliment and a thank-you.  René did not usually treat himself to things like this.  Extravagance and treats such as this were reserved only for special occasions.  

René inspects the beef, and then the wine.  "Magnifique," he declares, taking the cuts to the kitchen with a triumphant gait.  "Bring the onions and the spinach; tonight, we dine like kings!"

Mundy looks positively ecstatic; René wonders when he last had a meal like this one.  He teaches the biker how to chop onions without going blind, and how to caramelize them with oil, garlic and just a bit of brown sugar.  Together, they watch as the chopped onions turn brown and shiny and fill the entire house with its mouth-watering aroma.  René puts another pan on the burner to cook the spinach, and he moves a forkful of the onions over to give some more flavor to them.  

By this point, Mundy is bouncing on his heels; he wants to get to the part where they cook the steak, that much is obvious.  To distract himself, he tasks himself with toasting some French bread in the oven with some butter.

René rubs some herbs and spices into the meat, tenderizing it with his fingers so that it absorbs the flavors before he lays them gently down on the hot skillet amongst the onions.  The kitchen comes alive with the sound of crackling oil as the meat cooks just enough on one side.  René expertly flips them over simultaneously only half a minute later, a time frame he decided was correct based on the thickness of the cuts.  "Not too long," he says.  "Or you risk cooking yourself a well-done steak.  Well-done steaks have no place in my home."  He says it very seriously, and Mundy nods solemnly in agreement.  

At René's signal, Mundy produces two dinner plates and the steaks are distributed with an equal portion of onions each.  He gives the same treatment to the spinach and retrieves the warm French bread from the oven.  All the burners go off, he uncorks the red wine and they seat themselves at the dinner table for the third time in two days.

Mundy beats him to the first bite, and his eyes practically roll backwards into his head.  He chews slowly and makes a noise that is so damn sexual that René has to pretend not to notice.  "You're a bloody genius."

René laughs and sips the wine.  It's very good.  "Let's not forget that it was you who picked the cuts.  Half the credit is yours."

"You can thank the butcher, then."  He grins, scooping up some onions and spinach.  "I just asked him for the best that he had."

"To the butcher!"  René holds up his wine glass, and Mundy clinks his against it.  They drink, and René feels a warm blush cross his face.  "I suppose this is not how you usually spend your Saturday nights?"

"What, dining with a French chef?  Nah.  Back in Oz you'd find me halfway to passed out in the dirt by now behind one of the old haunts.  The Croc Bite, that was a good bar.  Or Eva's.  She was a beauty.  Enough bar-fights to last a lifetime, I reckon."

"With other gangs?"  René risks asking a personal question, and for a moment is scared that he's pried too far.

A curious look crosses Mundy's face.  "A few.  Though, a lot of 'em were with me own mates.  That's what happens 9 beers in," he laughs a good, clean laugh and suddenly that's the end of the trip down memory lane.  "Are you really gonna go to that church picnic tomorrow?"

The funny thing is, Mundy really looks concerned about it when there's no real reason he should care. 

René sighs and refills his wine glass.  "I'm afraid that I must, or Helen will insinuate herself into my life at every opportunity until I join her at some other function.  At least this one is out in public.  If I went to one of her dinner parties she'd probably corner me in the restroom and bite my head off."  He rolls his eyes and Mundy chuckles.

"Not interested, huh?"

"That," he pointed at Mundy, "is putting it quite mildly.  I mean, even if I _did_ …" he stops himself, shaking his head.  _Idiot_ , he'd almost said it out loud.  "It's just that I find her repellent in every way.  Do you know,"  he leans forward conspiratorially.  "She's been whispering around town that so many of our town's problems would melt away if only we segregated the schools again."

Mundy smacks his forehead with his palm.  "Not one o' those."

"Oh, indeed."  He rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible.  "And she knows just how loudly to complain about it.  Not too quietly that no one cares, but not too loudly that there is a backlash.  She's diabolical.  And this town is just awful enough to allow it."

A third glass of wine couldn't hurt.  He retrieves a new bottle from the wine rack.   

Mundy finishes his plate and sits back in his chair to take a deep breath.  "I'm really upset I had to finish that meal."  He downs the last of his glass in one gulp and holds it up for a refill as René opens a new bottle.  "Didn't that steak just melt in your mouth?  And the onions, I've never had onions like that before."

"And it's so easy, anyone can make them."  He gives Mundy a generous pour.  He's feeling nice and relaxed now, the wine doing wonders for his nerves and his mood.  "Thank you.  For the food.  It was wonderful and I haven't cooked a fine meal like that in some time."

"Be honest," Mundy rolls forward in his chair, propping his elbows on the table.  "You looked pretty at home over a stove, you weren't ever a chef?  Some sort of cook?  Flip burgers?"

René looks at that lop-sided grin and takes another sip of wine.  "You've got me.  I was a chef.  In New York City."

"Blimey."  Mundy marvels, thinking on that for a moment.  "You mean, you left France to come to America to be a chef?  Usually the other way 'round, mate."

"Mm, usually yes.  But I wanted to have… an adventure.  I wanted a romantic life in America.  I wanted to see the Statue of Liberty from my bedroom.  I wanted to have my lunch at the Carnegie Deli and take evening strolls around Central Park.  For a while, I had it, too.  It was glorious and everything I imagined it to be.  But it was all false."  

"What happened?"

"It ended.  Spectacularly and… messily and with a fair amount of tears, it ended."

Mundy looks down at his hands and René can tell he regrets asking.  "Relationship issues?"

"I was betrayed and heartbroken and broke.  All my money had been quietly and discreetly siphoned away and I found myself alone one morning with a note that said, 'it's over.'"  René couldn't bring himself to look up again.  "So I took the first job I was offered, and that was here.  You don't need a formal degree to teach in a private school, and this house was part of the deal.  Not a bad thing, really.  And it turns out, I am a good teacher."

"I don't doubt it," Mundy offers, finishing another glass.  His face is also starting to look a bit flushed.  

René finishes his last bite of steak, disappointed to find it had gone cold while he was talking.  Still delicious, though.  "Well, I am going to clear these plates tonight, and I'm sorry, but I must return to my grading.  If I am going to this godawful picnic tomorrow, I'll need to have them finished."

He clears the plates and washes the dishes and Mundy compliments his impeccable cooking skills again before he excuses himself to take a shower.  

René makes a valiant attempt at the rest of the grading but his mind is elsewhere.  He hasn't spoken of his time in New York in a very long time and it's drudged up all sorts of painful memories.  

When Mundy is out of the shower, he decides to take one himself.  

 

*****

 

Under the hot blast of the water, René feels a little bit better.  There was nothing like a hot meal, some good wine, and a piping-hot shower to make one feel like a new man.  

Afterwards, he combs his hair in the mirror and takes a good look at his face.  Hm.  Serviceable.  He's not 25 anymore but he still has most of his angular features and all of his hair.  Even though a good portion of it is grey.  Even his chest hair is starting to go grey and for some reason that makes him shudder.  As depressing as it is to see the hair on your head go grey, it's a thousand times worse to watch it happen elsewhere.  

He wonders how old Mundy is.  Looks to be in his thirties at least, though hard living did age a person past their actual years.  What must he have looked like in his twenties?

Tall, skinny but fit.  Clad in tight jeans and a black leather jacket with matching gloves.  René can't picture him looking much different than he does now, just with fewer lines on his face.  But those lines give him character, maturity somehow.  How his eyes crinkle when he smiles and those lines come out.  Crow's feet, they're called.  

He smiles when he realizes that Mundy's horse-face is actually growing on him.  

Ugh.  Is Mundy actually handsome?  He is.  He is very handsome.  

 

*****

 

René engages in the guiltiest, most silent wank he's had since he was a teenager still living at home.  

For those short, blessed moments, he forgets all about the church picnic the next day.  

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

Honestly, René would have stayed in bed all day and pretended to be sick if Mundy wasn't obviously cooking eggs downstairs.  His mouth waters and his stomach grumbles and he fights it for as long as he can before he drags himself from bed and trudges downstairs without changing out of his pajamas.

Mundy laughs when he lays eyes on him.  "Aw c'mon, mate!  Won't be that bad!  Have a few hot dogs, make nice with the neighbors, do a three-legged race with your girlfriend…"

"Euch!"  René exclaims, burying his face in his hands.  "That's not funny."  His guest laughs at him and René feels a hot blush on his face.  If he was honest, the memory of his fantasy from last night is still lingering in his mind and he tries to forget about it before his imagination goes for the technicolor replay. 

Mundy sets out two plates of eggs, this time with the leftover spinach and a light dusting of salt on top.  It's delicious, just like yesterday, and René smiles. 

The Australian eats a bit quicker than normal, citing the fact that he needs to be at work soon with a proud grin.  In an unchecked moment of affection, René offers to pack some food for his lunch, but Mundy politely declines.  "Turns out, DeGroot also owns the Tavern across the street and they do us up some sandwiches for lunch."

René finishes his eggs with a sigh and sees Mundy out the door.  A part of him wishes he can bring Mundy with him to the picnic.  If for no other reason, than to see Helen's face when a motorcycle ruins her picnic's "immaculate" aesthetic.  

Getting dressed for a church picnic he does not want to attend is easily the most depressing thing he's done in a while.  It feels like he's getting dressed for some sort of public execution.

20 minutes into feeling sorry for himself, he resolves to snap out of it.  There's nothing to say he even has to stay that long.  He's a grown man and can come up with an excuse to leave if he so chooses.  What would they do, tell him he couldn't leave?

His nerves are getting the best of him as they so often do and he massages his temples to expel the stress headache that's forming.  He can feel his mood darkening with each passing moment and if he doesn't get it under control, he'll be miserable company for the entire day.  

It's a bit chilly out today, so he dresses in charcoal slacks with a deep burgundy dress shirt.  No tie today, 5 days a week of the bloody things for school is enough.  He matches a grey pair of shoes with a grey overcoat and inspects the outfit in the mirror.  Dark, yes.  More suited for winter.  But he really only owns winter colors.  Oranges, bright reds and light browns don't really make an appearance in his wardrobe, which probably contributes to his reputation as a cranky recluse.  Besides being reclusive and cranky of course.  

He splashes a bit of hair treatment around to shape his hair, running a comb through it until he looks presentable.

Well, he thinks.  Now or never.  

The Teufort Church is only two miles from his house, so he opts for the method of getting there that will take the longest; walking.  He sees it looming in the distance before he arrives; tall, gothic and cold.  

The Teufort Church is strictly Roman Catholic, as 95% of the town is.  It was built when the town was first settled all those years ago and has remained a major landmark ever since.  Every Sunday the social and political elite file in to see and be seen by others in the social and political elite.  Helen is very much recognized as the Queen Bee, though she has no official title to speak of.  

The church sits right in the center of town, and in front of it is a sprawling, meticulously maintained lawn, big enough to fit two whole soccer fields, or one extravagant picnic.  Helen wasn't lying, the whole town has turned out for this event en masse.  The streets are lined with parked cars, the sidewalks crowded with those still arriving and the air smells of barbecued food and sugar from the cotton candy machine.  

Immediately, René spots a few of his students and their parents.  They greet him with warm smiles, some of them are even genuine.  

The picnic is quite loud and crowded, and René can feel a general unease settling in his gut.  He was never extremely fond of crowds, which was often a problem in New York when he lived there.  But, as anyone living in New York can tell you, crowds are easily avoided if you know your way around.  There are always shortcuts and alternate routes to avoid them; little secrets unknown to tourists.  But in a town like this, a crowd means no escape: you just have to grin and bear it.

In his peripheral vision, he spots the picnic table that is clearly the one Helen has claimed for herself and her group of disciples.  They are all there with cocktails and no food in sight, expensive handbags laid out on the table for all to see.  They are wearing the latest fashions, all perfectly tailored and made up to an exquisite degree.  Helen sits in the middle of them all with her hair done up high and her makeup startling.  They all look to her with adoration, laughing when she laughs, leaning in close when she speaks and casting wary eyes on all other attendants at the picnic.  

Oh God, she's spotted him.  She whispers to the table and they all grin, eyeing him like a piece of meat and taking a synchronized sip from their respective drinks.  

She's on her way over.  René feels sick.

"René, darling!"  She approaches with her arms out, and he's forced into a half-hug while she plants a kiss on each of his cheeks.  "I'm so glad you could come, you really must join me at my table, the girls are dying to talk to you."  She insinuates an arm around his elbow and begins to escort him across the green.

"Yo, teach!"  

Oh thank _GOD_.

René stops in his tracks, probably too forcefully, because Helen stumbles a bit and looks perturbed.  Dashing across the field towards him is Scout, and he's semi-dragging his mother behind him.  It's odd to see him out of his school uniform and it an outfit more suited for playing baseball.  He supposes Scout also thinks it's odd to see him outside the classroom.  

"Mr. Bellamy!"  Ms. Ahearn chirps with a smile on her face.  She must have been exceedingly young when she started having children; there are 8 of them now and she doesn't look a day over 35.  8 hyperactive boys with thick accents and an endless supply of energy and she's raising them all on her own.  The woman must have nerves of steel.  "I just wanted to say thank you for the help you gave my little scout here," she pats him on the shoulder.  

" _Ma_ ," Scout grouses, shrugging her hand off his shoulder.  "Not _little_."

"He showed me his flash cards and it was just so clever, I even learned a little myself!"

"Imagine that."  Helen coos with a barely veiled tone of condescension.  She has never approved of Ms. Ahearn, probably because of the rumored divorce she slapped her husband with back in Boston.  It was a well-known fact that Helen did not approve of divorce; that it personally offended her on some deep, emotional level no matter the cause.  

René tries to keep the conversation between Ms. Ahearn and himself.  "Well, anyone can see that Scout is a bright boy, but not everyone learns from just _hearing_ the information.  Sometimes the information must be processed in different ways.  Visually, or with anecdotes that have more resonance for a 13-year-old.  At the end of the day, very few people have a knack for understanding international relations, or the Pythagorean theorem so we must find creative ways to explain it."

"Gosh," she smiles.  "That makes so much sense, really.  Well, we'll let you get back to the picnic, I just wanted to say thanks again.  Maybe we'll see a few 'A pluses' on this kid's report card at the end of the semester, huh?"  She nudges Scout with an elbow.

" _Maaa_ …"  

"Pleasure speaking with you," René shakes her hand warmly and waves as they leave.

"Report _caaahd_ , my _God_ that woman's accent," Helen whispers and resumes the trip to her table.  "I pity those boys, growing up without a fatherly influence."

"They seem to be doing well enough," René offers, struggling to keep the disgust out of his voice.  

"Oh yes, they seem fine now, but when they grow up… well, you know what happens to boys raised without a strong, masculine influence."  She raises her eyebrows.  "It's just a natural fact, they grow up… funny.  You know."  She pats his arm and sighs.

The queasy feeling in his stomach has increased ten-fold by now.  This is far worse than he thought it would be.  By God, this woman is like a cartoon: how can one person be so wrong about so many things so quickly?  She makes it look effortless, to be filled with this much casual contempt for good people.  

And he's about to sit with her at her table and pretend to be satisfied by her company.  He's a coward.  He hates himself.  

He finds the more evolved parts of his brain shutting down temporarily as he makes the most artificial of conversation with Helen and The Wives of Teufort.  Hours pass and he hears all the latest gossip (read: false rumors) about everyone in town.  He manages to choke down some crackers and cheese, as well as a small plate of potato salad.  He honestly would have had a cocktail if he wasn't in the sourest mood of his life.  Adding alcohol to the mix may very well have made him sick.  

He tries to shut out the incessant, back-biting chatter and focuses on the sky.  It's starting to turn lovely colors; the approaching cold season means that the sunlight will start leaving earlier and earlier, shortening the days to the point where you could very well miss them when you started your day at 6am and ended it at 6pm.  

At first, he thinks he's imagining the drone of an engine.  But as it gets louder, René realizes that it's Mundy's motorcycle over there in the road.  The man is pulling up to the curb and parking it.  

He can't believe Mundy is here.  A goofy grin is barely roped back into a blank expression of amusement.  

"My God… is that your houseguest, René?"  Helen is horrified.  

"Oh yes," he acts casual.  Like this isn't completely bizarre.  "It appears he was able to make it after all."  René politely excuses himself and pointedly _doesn't_ run away from the table at full speed like a man escaping a death sentence.  

By the time he reaches Mundy on the street, at least 7 children have gathered around the bike and some of them are actually touching it.  One child is gripping the handle bars and making 'vroom' noises.  Mundy stands by looking amused and answering their overlapping questions as best he can.  When he notices René, he smiles mischievously.  

René comes to a stop and lifts one eyebrow at him.  "What are you doing?"

"I've come to rescue you."  Mundy announces.  "This is shit, isn't it?  There isn't even any music.  What kinda picnic is this?"  Some of the children giggle at the curse word.  "Also, you look fuckin' miserable."

René visibly deflates: he had been under the impression that he'd done a good job of hiding it.  "Don't curse in front of the children.  This has been, without a doubt, the longest day of my life.  And it's only been a few hours."

"Well, come on then."  Mundy sits back on the motorcycle and pats the seat behind him.  

René stares.

Mundy stares back.

René says, "What."

"Come on, we're going to Tavish Tavern in Port Hull.  They have a piano and 20 different types of whiskey and a jukebox."

"Mundy," he shrugs helplessly, at a loss for words.  "I can't just leave.  And… not on that."

"Course you can leave.  Come on, say goodbye to-- oops, here she comes."  Mundy can't even hide the absolute glee he's feeling.

René whirls around and sees Helen breezing towards them with a look of murder in her eyes.  "Ah, Helen.  I'd like you to meet my… my cousin.  Micky Mundy, this is Helen Cross."  

"Charmed," she clips out.  

"Pleasure's all mine, ma'am."  Mundy tips a hat that's not there and leans forward.  "And what a lovely lady you are, if I do say so myself.  You like motorcycles?  Can I interest you in a ride around the block?"  He pats the bike's seat and smiles wide, making sure that she sees his missing tooth.

Helen almost reels with disgust.  "That's a very emphatic NO from me, Mr. _Mundy_.  René, do come back when you're… done with this."  Her message is clear: _get rid of him_.  She stalks away, every muscle in her body so tense that René is surprised she can walk at all.  

Mundy laughs like a child that's just pulled off a particularly dirty prank and looks just a little ashamed only when René refocuses on him.  "You realize, I'll pay for that later?"

"Ahhh, what's she gonna do?  Come on, now's your chance.  Hop on."  He scoots forward, making room.

"I told you, I can't.  I… I just…"

"René."  Mundy looks him right in the eye, expression serious.  "Don't worry.  It's just a picnic.  It'll go on without you.  Who cares about what Helen says anyway?"  

The sound of his name coming out of Mundy's mouth is what calms him.  Yet at the same time, his heart rate triples and he feels a surge of adrenaline.  "I won't fall off?"  He eyes the thin strip of seat behind Mundy.  It doesn't look at all secure.

"Not if you hold on."  Mundy starts the engine, and the nearby hovering cloud of children all exclaim in wonder at the noise, laughing and covering their ears.  Some of their parents look decidedly displeased.  

René takes a deep breath, wipes his sweaty palms on his overcoat, and forces himself to throw a leg over the motorcycle, tucking up close to Mundy with an arm around his torso.  "Sorry," he apologizes over the din of the engine, though he's not sure for what exactly.  For touching him?

"S'alright, mate!  Hold on, we're gonna make a quick exit: your sheila's not happy."  Mundy quickly puts a pair of aviators and the motorcycle jerks forward, scaring René half to death.  He reflexively clings harder to Mundy, pretending he didn't make a high-pitched yelp out of fear.  He doesn't dare look back to see people's reactions as the motorcycle roars away.  He doesn't even want to entertain the thought of how Helen is going to handle him running off without saying goodbye.  

They've gone approximately a mile when René realizes he's still clinging to Mundy perhaps a little too hard.  He tries to loosen his grip, he really does, but every time they take a corner he's worried that their equilibrium will be shattered and he'll go spiraling to the pavement.  Also, it's an easy excuse to hold him without any guilt.  This was Mundy's idea, after all.  René is blameless for clinging.  The smell of leather is divine, and he can feel Mundy's ribcage expanding with each breath.  It's nice.  It's very nice.

God, they really should be wearing helmets.  Why didn't Mundy own a helmet?

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

They leave Teufort behind them and soon find themselves in Port Hull, a significantly poorer town just a few miles away.  The contrast between the two areas is stark and obvious as they cross town borders.  Less money, older houses, and far more industrial-looking in general.  Because of the low property values, the town was mostly populated with immigrants seeking low rent and a bit of community in an unfamiliar land.  René knows that several languages are spoken here, and it's diversity is more than evident as they pass a Korean grocery, a Mexican restaurant and an African hair salon.  

Mundy seems to know his way around by now, he takes a shortcut off the main road and cuts across a few side streets to get to Tavish Tavern; a small and unassuming looking pub that faces the river.  A Scottish flag hands out front next to an engraved list of their whiskies.  

Mundy pulls to a stop right outside and cuts the engine, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.  "See?  World didn't end."

René releases his squid-like grip on Mundy and unsteadily dismounts the bike, trying to calm his quaking knees.  "Actually there were a few turns back there that almost proved you wrong."

"Naaaah," Mundy laughs, lowering the kick stands and standing himself.  He gestures to the DeGroot Garage across the street.  "Did some good business today actually; Tavish called a few of his mates with motorcycles and we gave 'em some discounted tune-ups.  Reckon by next week they'll tell a few people and kick up the bike business and I'll be makin' cash hand over fist."

"Excellent, you're on your way."  René smiles warmly, happy to see Mundy having success.  He purposefully does not think about him leaving.

He looks at the bike once more and it occurs to him again that he has just ditched Helen at the church picnic in front of essentially the entire town.  Not only that, but he did it clinging to the back of a man on a motorcycle.  

He doesn't care if there's school tomorrow, he needs a good, stiff drink and he needs it now.  He pinches the bridge of his nose, "Mon ami, let's have a drink before I spend any more time thinking about what I've just done."

Mundy slaps him on the back and leads them both inside.  

The bikers affection for the place seems to be warranted; the pub is decently sized and decently attended by at least a dozen people.  The interior is completely wood, in an old European style that makes René think of home.  The furniture is mismatched but cozy, and the walls are decorated with photos from Scotland and clippings of various newspapers from all over the world.  The lighting has a soft orange glow from candles and old lamps alike that make it feel like the sort of place you can tuck yourself into and hide from the world.  Traditional Scottish tunes play from the jukebox and the air is cloudy with cigar and cigarette smoke.

Mundy makes a beeline for a table in the corner with two open seats.  He plops down and sighs contentedly, signaling the bartender for two of something, René does not know what.  He sits in the other available chair and removes his overcoat, opting to roll up the sleeves of his button-up shirt in an attempt to look more casual: he feels drastically overdressed in this place.  

"Bet yer glad to be out of there, huh?"  Mundy removes his biker jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair.  René catches a glimpse of the dancing figures tattooed on his arm again.

"Relieved in a way, yes.  Though I can't help but wonder how she will bring this back against me later."  He rests his chin on one hand and lets his eyes wander around the pub.  A few patrons who eyed them coming in are now back to their own conversations.  René can hear at least two languages besides English being spoken.  But he recognizes neither.  

"What, could she get you fired?  Evicted?"  He looks worried.

René thinks seriously for a moment.  "No, nothing so extreme.  I don't believe so, anyway.  But she doesn't take kindly to insults.  She has a way of damaging reputations to pay back petty slights against her."  

Mundy nods and contemplates for a moment.  He notices the bartender signaling him and gets up to retrieve two glasses of a dark brown liquor.  He hands one to René and clinks his own glass against it.  "To better company, mate."    

"Indeed," René smirks and sips the drink.  A delicious scotch whiskey; appropriate, considering the owner and obvious theme of the place.  As a man more accustomed to wine, the scotch burns going down but warms his belly in an undeniably pleasant way.  And the taste is quite good; oaky and rich.  

"MUNDY!"  A hugely boisterous voice from the rear of the pub splits through the din of the small crowd.  René startles only a bit and looks to the source of the noise and sees a handsome, strapping black man with an eye patch carrying a box of unopened liquor bottles from the basement.  The man hands the box off to the bartender and strides towards them with a broad grin on his face.

They share the most violent, vigorous handshake René's ever seen and the man points right at him.  "You found him?  Rescued him from the clutches of boredom, aye?"

"I did!  René, this is Tavish DeGroot.  Tavish, meet the Frenchman who's saving my ass from starvation."

"Thought that was me, ya skinny pillock," Tavish laughs and shakes René's hand with far more care than he showed Mundy, thankfully.  

"You know, I believe I teach your son.  Thomas DeGroot?"

"Oh aye?  Let me guess, French teacher?"  He lets loose a deep belly laugh and it's so genuine that it sweeps René right along with it and he laughs as well.  "I've seen him practicing his words and whatnot, it's a bit over my head, but he's a bright lad; just has an instinct for memorizin' things and picking them up.  Got that from his mum, he did.  She was bright as paint, knew every bone in the human body by name."  

The way he speaks of her, René can tell that she's dead, though for how long, he hasn't a clue.  

Tavish excuses himself and resumes his work behind the bar.  It seems that everyone knows him by name, and even if they don't, he still treats them like an old friend.  

The conversation that ensues between them is a bit awkward at first.  They begin with the things that are going on with their lives at the moment.  Mundy doesn't get into much detail about the circumstances behind his trip, and René actually doesn't have much going on in his life at the moment, so they abandon that topic and go for the past.  

They talk a bit about their respective homes and what life was like when they were very young men living with their parents.  Apparently, Mundy was a sickly child who never got along with his father.

"Ah, he could tell I was no good, even back then."  Mundy waves a hand over his shoulder and cracks open a fresh beer.  

"What do you mean, 'no good?'"

"Just, you know.  Different.  Wasn't in good health for the first 10 years of my life and then after that I was just," he shrugged.  "odd.  Couldn't stand school, couldn't stand my teachers, hated all my friends, talked to my pets.  I wanted to run away and live in trees when I was a little ankle-biter, and my dad thought I was crackers.  He was probably right, but my mum liked to pretend I was just going through a phase."

"How old were you when you joined the uh… the group…" He pointed to Mundy's jacket.

"Oh," Mundy rolls his eyes.  "Hale's Angels.  Too young.  17, I think.  Yeah, seems about right.  I had this pathetic excuse for a bike that I tried to fix up myself and I told them I wanted to be one of them.  Well they took that bike, trashed it, beat me up good and proper and told me to come back the next day."

"And you did?"

"I did."  Mundy nodded proudly.  "Came back the next day, said I wanted to be in the group, and they chased me out of the bar with bottles and knives."

René can scarcely believe that a man as kind and even-keeled as Mundy was ever a part of an organization that beat up teenagers as part of an initiation process.  "How long did this go on for?"

"Little over a week.  Finally, they got so tired of chasing me away that they asked The Father to consider me for a prospect."

"Father?  Prospect?"  René found all the lingo to be a bit confusing.

"Father is what they called the top dog, the head guy.  Man in charge, basically.  Prospect means prospective member."

"How long have you been in Hale's Angels?"  René idly wonders if he should be this nosy, but the booze is making both of them talkative and comfortable and he's running with it while he has the chance.  

Mundy thinks.  "Guess it would have to be 20 years.  Christ, 20 years."

 _37_ , thinks René.  Younger than himself but only just.  He really has no idea why little tidbits of information like this make his heart beat just a bit harder, but they do and he's helpless to question it.  

 

*****

 

Around 9:30pm, René knows it's a mistake to be drinking as much as he is.  But the scotch is good, the pub is warm and comfortable, he feels welcome for the first time in a long time.  And Mundy is making him laugh.  He's telling some hilarious story about camping in the outback and having his clothes stolen by a pair of mischievous aboriginal children while he was swimming.  

"And I'm not about to go chasin' after 'em wearing nothing but a smile," Mundy shrugs wildly.  "Some skinny, pale, naked scruff chasing two children?  So they dash away, laughing their little heads off, and I have to tromp back across the bush with my boots and my hat only."

"Oh god," René collapses into a fit of giggles, turning red as he pictures it in his head.  

"Mate."  He sips his beer and his face goes dead serious.  "When I tell you that it was the _worst_ _sunburn--_ "

"Oh god!"  René waves his hands in front of him; he actually doesn't want to hear about that part.  He collapses back into his chair laughing so hard that he snorts through his nose: something that usually happens when he laughs uncontrollably.

 

*****

 

The night continues.  It must be after 11 by now.  

René is opening up a bit about New York and what it was like to live there.  Mundy has never been, but hopes to one day visit.  

He's rambling about Times Square and the insane amount of traffic when Mundy suddenly bursts out laughing and interrupts him with a heavy hand on his arm.  "Gonna have to stop you there," he giggles, completely losing his composure and almost spilling his beer.  "You've been speaking French for five minutes and I can't follow a bloody word!" 

René buries his face in his hands and by the time he's done laughing there are tears running down his face.

Mundy orders another round of beers.

 

*****

 

The incessant, rhythmic buzzing by his face is quite possibly the most obnoxious noise René has ever encountered in his life.  He wants to kill it.  Throw it across the room and stomp it out of existence.  He manages to gather enough of his wits to smack the offending device with one hand and knock it away.  He hears a clatter and then… silence.  

 _Oh god_ , thinks René.  _My head._   

It feels like his brain has been hollowed out during the night and then shoddily put back together with duct tape and rocks.  As soon as he's fully awake, he can feel the room spinning.  Closing his eyes does nothing to alleviate the dizziness and quick on its heels is a fiery hot wave of nausea.  

Opening one eye and trying to focus on his surroundings, he takes a mental checklist of all the facts.  It's morning and he's in his bed.  In his own house.  His shoes are on the floor near the bed.  His belt is by his shoes.  His jacket hangs on the closet door and his watch is on the nightstand.  He's wearing the pants and shirt he wore to the bar last night and the covers have been kicked off the bed and onto the floor.  Also he feels like he's been run over by four trucks.  

He thinks back on the previous night and realizes with a fair amount of horror that he actually drank enough to black out.  There's a significant portion of the night that he can't remember.  Most conspicuously missing is how exactly he got home and into bed.  And where is Mundy?

Sitting up is a challenge and he tackles it slowly, inch by inch.  Once upright, his body protests violently at being disturbed and he rushes to the bathroom.  What comes up is mostly liquid; on top of drinking enough to temporarily drown his brain he recalls that he didn't eat much the previous day either.  He berates himself for being so careless with his drinking as he fills the sink with cold water and dunks his whole head in it.  He must look ridiculous, but it feels so good.  It takes away the dull ache of nausea, anyway.  

Suddenly and terribly, René realizes that it's Monday and he's probably supposed to be at work already.  He seriously considers calling out sick, which he's never done in all the years he's worked at the school.  He'll at least have to come up with an excuse for why he's late, but it'll be obvious to anyone who looks at him.

He dresses slowly, making sure to remember his tie, and makes his way downstairs.  The nausea has mostly subsided, but his head is pounding and he feels overwhelmingly dehydrated.  

He checks the clock.  By some miraculous twist of fate, he'll only be about half an hour late.  And he doesn't even have a class until 10:30.  He even has time for a quick bite of something to alleviate this damn hangover.  

When he enters the dining room, he finds Mundy drinking coffee with a stone serious expression.  He has an ice pack resting on his head as he reads the paper and looks a bit like René feels.  When he sees his host entering the room, he fumbles for words a bit, but collects himself and manages a wry grin.  "Overdid it a bit, didn't we?"

René nods and sits, feeling like he's aged 50 years in one night.  "I need water.  I need some sort of caffeine.  And then I have to go to work."

Mundy immediately takes on the task, expertly throwing two pieces of bread into the toaster and pouring an extra cup of coffee from the freshly brewed pot.  He puts it in front of René and returns to the kitchen for the now toasted bread and a glass of cold water.  

René takes a sip of the water first, and it's so cold he can feel it traveling all the way down his esophagus and into his stomach.  "Thank you, my friend."  He sighs in relief, taking a few nibbles of the dry toast and starting in on the coffee.  "Forgive me, there is a lot from last night I don't remember."

"Oh yeah?"  Asks Mundy, who gets up to refill his mug with more coffee.

"I haven't lost time since I was much younger.  I can't recall leaving the bar or getting home at all."

"No worries, I remember all of that.  I called us a taxi, left the bike at the garage.  I've driven myself home drunk more times than I should have, but I wasn't gonna risk it with you."

René frowns and rests his head on his arm.  "Don't drive drunk _ever_ ," he scolds weakly.  "I'd be very upset if you were killed in some horrible accident."

"Nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," Mundy chuckles, refreshing René's cup.  

"Did… Did you put me to bed?"  He murmurs, too embarrassed to make eye-contact.  He almost keeps the question to himself, but the curiosity is killing him.  And his history as an affectionate drunk poses the ever-more embarrassing unspoken question; what exactly had he said last night, if anything?

Immediately, René can tell that Mundy is watching his words.  "Yeah, you were three sheets to the wind so I just walked you upstairs and made sure to put you on your side."  He gives a good-natured smile and sits again at the table, inhaling the scent of the coffee.  

"Not too much trouble, I hope?  It's been a long time since I've had that much to drink in one sitting."

"Nah, mate.  You were fine."  He says it very finally and René can't help but feel that it's not the whole story.  But he doesn't have the energy or the brain cells or the time to figure it out right now.  He gulps down the water, munches the toast and sips the last of the coffee.  He feels like something resembling a human again, and he feels like maybe it's possible to finish out the day at work.  

"Are you working today?"  

"Yeah, gonna walk there.  It's a nice day and I could use the exercise."  Mundy stretches his arms to the ceiling and René permits himself a peek at the long torso displayed as a result.

"Nonsense," René retrieves his overcoat from the front hall closet.  "I'll drive you, come on."

"Oh," Mundy looks like he's ready to protest but decides not to refuse the kind offer.  "Thanks."

 

*****

 

The drive to Port Hull is mostly silent. 

René is sure that he somehow embarrassed himself last night and Mundy is too kind or too mortified to bring it up.  If only he could remember, but it's not coming back to him and it's torture.

 

*****

 

His classes pass without incident.  He's prepping all of his students for a mid-term exam and has to effectively manage his time between the ones with real questions and the ones with concerns like, 'does spelling count?'  He tells them yes, of course spelling counts, and a groan fills the room accompanied by wide-eyed terror from the students who have clearly not begun to study.  Depending on what student you ask, René is either 'an okay teacher' or 'totally strict, man.'  

He has a few study periods to oversee, and though they're boring, it does give him time to sip coffee and gather his thoughts.  Some of the teachers have noticed his groggy state, but no one has mentioned it yet.  

He looks over his lesson plan and some notes, reviews some upcoming chapters and answers the occasional question from a student.  The day is truly crawling by, and he struggles to keep busy.  

A flash, an image, comes unbidden to his mind; Mundy's face, in quite a close proximity to his own.  He looks tired but amused and he's saying something.  René replays the image in his mind, again and again like a broken record.  The complete image is so close, so within his grasp, yet so far away and intangible.  Again and again, he pores over the memory, certain that it's from last night.  Mundy's face, close by and slightly above his own.  That would make sense, considering the man is taller than him.  Mundy is looking at him, then looking away.  Looking at him, then looking away.  Saying something.  Saying something with a wry grin and sympathetic eyes.  

This memory can't be from his imagination.  It's from last night and his damn brain won't give up the clues.  

He's interrupted by young Thomas DeGroot, who approaches him for advice.  The young man, in an effort to break his streak of lackluster test scores, has constructed a study guide in the form of a chart with complete conjugations of 20 verbs and an example of each used in a complete sentence.  It's very thorough and mostly correct; René uses his red pen to add in some accents and a missing 'e' here or there.  He nods, handing the chart back.  "This is very good, Thomas.  _Très bien_.  I know you'll do well on this exam.  Just remember to relax, you know all of this already.  Just because it's a test doesn't make it any different from a homework assignment.  You do your homework very well, don't you?"

Thomas shuffles his feet.  "Yeah, but… I always have the book next to me and I can check it before I had it in.  If I don't have the answers, it's hard.  And I always write the wrong thing…"  He purses his lips, frustrated.  

René feels for the child, he really does.  Nerves have a way of knocking you off your wits and making easy tasks impossible.  "Try writing some conjugations out on the back of the exam before you start; get your thoughts in order.  Then, you can look at them when you feel unsure."

"K," he replies, unconvinced.  "Thanks, Mr. Bellamy.  I hope you feel better."  He returns to his seat and takes out another sheet of paper to begin a new chart with new verbs.

René smiles.  Thomas is a good kid and he has high hopes for the boy.  

Hope you feel better.

Feel better.

When you feel better.

Maybe when you feel better….

Listen….

When you feel better…

You're not yourself, but when you're feeling better...

" _Listen mate_ ," a gentle reassuring voice.  " _You're not yourself… but…  maybe… when you're feeling better… ask me again?_ "

René feels his face go white and he feels dizzy.  

Oh.  Oh no.  Oh  _Christ_.

 

 

 

 

.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

The internal panic furnace raging within his gut keeps René from focusing on anything for the rest of the day.  He's gone through the trouble of defeating his hangover-related queasiness only to have it replaced with the vomit-inducing terror that came with realizing he'd come on to a man that he hardly knew while blackout drunk.  

A drifter with a horse face who sleeps in the dirt and curses around children and has no money and belongs to a gang of terrifying, law-breaking roughnecks.  A man who is missing a tooth and is tattooed and rides a motorcycle that's louder than a jet engine and falls asleep in coffee shops.  This is who he fell for.  

But why is he picking on Mundy's strange quirks?  It's not his fault.  René himself is the one who'd lost control of his faculties and embarrassed the poor man.  He's the one who has obviously said something completely inappropriate and forward and ruined the comfortable friendship they've just begun.

Ah, a revelation: he can play dumb.  Pretend he has no idea it happened.  Who's responsible for every little thing they do when they're blackout drunk anyway?

Well, _adults_.  René scolds himself.  He'd never be able to pull it off and it's not the right thing to do anyway.  He sits in the teacher's lounge drinking bland tea to settle his stomach and stares at the wall.  He doesn't want to go home and face what he's done.  Mundy didn't bring it up in the morning, so there was clearly no rush to get it sorted on either end.  

His mind drifts back yet again to the recently uncovered memory.  _"_ _When you're feeling better… ask me again?"_

René groans in frustration.  Mundy said 'ask me again.'  That meant he wanted another chance at whatever René had offered, if his memory serves correctly.  

But that's the thing: memory is not _serving_.  He doesn't even know what he's supposed to ask for again.  Did he ask Mundy to kiss him?  To fuck him?  Did he ask for a god-damn bedtime story?  Or to be the big spoon for the night?  Suppose he gathers enough courage to bring it up again and it turns out to be nothing romantic at all?  

He's too afraid of succeeding and he's too afraid of failing.  So he resigns himself to spending the rest of his life in this moment, sitting at this table and not moving: he'll just be here forever with no answer.

He's the Schrodinger's Cat of romantic and sexual frustration. 

 

*****

 

He stops at the coffee shop on his way home from the school; anything to delay the inevitable awkwardness of going home.  

As usual, Shu is there to greet him with a smile and a wave.  She sets about making his usual coffee and biscuit and grins at him as he pays for it.  "I heard you caused quite a stir yesterday."

"How did you know about that?"

"Everybody knows about that," she shrugs.  "I wasn't there but I've been overhearing people talk about it all day today.  It's the hot topic at the moment."  

"Mm," René groans.  "And what exactly are people saying regarding the incident?"

"Well Helen Cross is on a warpath.  She tried not to show it, but everyone knew she was suuuuuper-pissed.  I think she's convinced that the guy with the motorcycle is a bad influence on you.  The way people were talking, she wants to get him and she wants to get him good."

René rolls his eyes: he should be more nervous for Mundy's sake, but what could Helen possibly do to the man?  Empty threats, all.

He sits with his coffee and biscuit and distracts himself with a newspaper until 7pm rolls around and he really must get home.  

He gives himself a last minute pep-talk and leaves the coffee shop.  

 

*****

 

They don't talk about it.  As soon as René steps in the front door Mundy is there with two cornish hens, insisting René show him the best way to prepare them.  

He breathes an internal sigh of relief.  Maybe they don't have to talk about it.  Maybe they can just pretend it never happened.

They eat the wonderfully succulent hens with a side of mashed potatoes and carrots.  René selects a white wine and everything just fits together.  It's a nice dinner.  They talk about their day and how their respective hangovers hindered their work.  Mundy  talks about everyone at the garage taking the piss and making loud noises just to fuck with him.  Tavish eventually took pity on him and gave him a few painkillers and pickle juice, of all things.  Claimed it would clear his head right up, and the funny thing is, it did.

René files that one away for later.  Pickle juice.  Hangover cure.  Who would have thought?

They clear their plates together and wash the dishes side by side.  Mundy is only a little quieter than normal before he says that he'll be able to buy more groceries for the two of them as the weeks pass.  There was some math involved, but he's figured out that in just two months, he'll have enough money to finish his trip.  

Two months sounds like an eternity and yet just the blink of an eye.

René says goodnight and heads upstairs.  He doesn't hear Mundy's bedroom door shut below him until several minutes later.

 

*****

 

He sits on his bed with his bare feet on the floor for too long.  He's not even doing anything, he's just staring at the wall while his brain tells him all the ways this can go wrong and all the ways this can go right.   

 _You can do this_ , says his brain.  _Look at the facts.  He invited you to try again, he just didn't want to take advantage of you while you were drunk.  How noble!  How respectful!  You should suck his cock, I'm certain he'd let you!_

  _Are you completely insane_ , squeaks his brain in retaliation.  _Does that man look like the type to let a French homosexual anywhere near his genitals?  The man was practically raised by violent, backwater hillbillies who thrive on hate and misery.  He's a nice man, yes, but don't be an idiot and confuse that with wanting to jump into bed with you.  Can you even trust your memory?  Are you sure what you remember is what actually happened?_

René wracks his brain.  The memory seems so real.  It's detailed in a way that he's sure he couldn't concoct in his own imagination.  

Soon enough the confusion and fear turns to anger.  

 _Fuck this_ , he thinks.  _Fuck this.  I'm going down there.  I refuse to be afraid in my own home.  I know him.  I do.  We haven't known each other for very long, but I know him and I know he wouldn't be violent with me._   

René stands and softly crosses the room.  He opens the door as quietly as he can and descends the staircase softly, like a cat.  When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he peeks around the corner and sees that the light is still on in Mundy's room, but it's very quiet.  He approaches the door and stares at it for a full 15 seconds.

He knocks; a task more difficult than one would assume.  Knock too loud and it sounds angry, knock too quietly and if it's even audible it sounds too tentative.  _Confidence, René, confidence._   

"Yeah?"  Comes the muffled response from behind the closed door.  "Come in."

René opens the door and finds Mundy sitting on the guest bed with a book.  It's one of René's books from his extensive travel library.  This one is a book of photography from Paris.  Mundy slips a piece of paper in it to hold his place and sets it down on the bed.  

 _Shit_ , thinks René.  He really hadn't rehearsed what he would say.  He scrambles for the words, hoping for a stroke of insight to give him a suave and smooth opening line for the dialogue they're about to have.  "I'm not drunk," is what comes out.

Mundy gives him a questioning look that quickly fades into comprehension.  He sits up a bit straighter.  "And you're uh… _offer_ still stands?"

René feels his face turning redder by the moment.  "I have to be completely honest.  I can't remember what it was exactly that I did offer.  But I remember you telling me to try again… when I wasn't a disgraceful mess."

Mundy chuckles.  "You weren't a disgraceful mess.  You were fine, like I said.  Just uh… very open, I guess is the word for it?  Almost a different person."

He looks at the floor.  "A better person?"

"No," Mundy says firmly, standing up at his full height.  "No, I like the real René better.  That's why I wanted to make sure that drunk René and real René felt the same way on this… particular subject."

The Frenchman can't stop a smile from inching onto his face.  "You know, you're a walking example of the idiom, 'don't judge a book by its cover.'"

Mundy takes a few steps forward, shrinking the distance between them by half.  "I like to keep people guessing.  Part of my charm."

"So, what exactly did I offer?"

The tall Australian laughs low and soft.  "Um… heh.  I think your exact words were, 'let me make you feel good, Sniper.'"

René can't help but scoff: it doesn't sound like something he'd say, and yet he believes Mundy implicitly.  It's so unbelievable that there's no way he'd say it if it wasn't true.  One of those, 'you can't make this stuff up' situations.  

But the words are out there.  He said them and they both know it.  All of his cards are on the table.

He lifts his eyes and they meet Mundy's.  René steps forward and their chests are almost touching and there is tension in the air so thick it's almost tangible.  This close, he can smell the biker's unique scent; skin and sweat and a hint of leather and the wine from dinner.  "Let me make you feel good, _Sniper_."

" _Spy_ ,"  With a growl, Mundy wraps one hand around the back of René's head and brings their mouths together in a kiss that's so hot and thorough that René feels swept away like a skiff in the ocean's current.  He returns the kiss as best he can with his mind racing: once again his brain is trying to sabotage him with questions and concerns and analyzations of every little thing.  It's maddening how his brain won't shut off when it's not needed.  Mundy plunges his tongue into René's mouth, tasting and licking and sucking and it's preventing him from breathing properly, but he doesn't care.  

Mundy slips his other hand down René's chest, down to his hip and around to his ass, squeezing and lifting and pressing their hips together, and it does the trick: René's brain goes quiet and receptive.  He throws his arms around Mundy's shoulders and pulls them together even tighter than before, close enough that he can feel him getting hard and he's almost sure that the biker can feel the same thing from him.  

He feels like this moment might slip away from him at any moment and he can't bear the thought of letting it go to waste: he grabs the bottom of Mundy's t-shirt with both hands and yanks it up before the other man even has time to put his arms up.  There's a moment of soft laughter before Mundy cooperates, lifting his arms so his shirt can be removed and then it's off, cast away into the corner of the room.  

René allows himself two seconds to take in the image of his shirtless partner and holds on to the most important facts: Mundy has a very hairy chest and he's covered in more tattoos than previously predicted.  He'll ask about them later, right now he has to get his mouth on the man, it's an emergency.  He kisses and bites down on the broad expanse of skin, licking and sucking and teething gently on areas he particularly likes.  Above him, Mundy groans softly with approval, running his calloused fingertips up and down René's back.  Then he grabs and yanks René's shirt off over his head and they're both shirtless and silent for a moment... and it's more intimate than anything he's experienced in 10 years.  Since Christopher.

But this is so much better.

Some men don't like their nipples touched: but when René encircles one with his lips and flicks it with his tongue, Mundy grabs his head and _pulls_ , mashing him closer and the shorter man laughs at the liberating feeling of being _good_ at this.  

René feels high, like he's taken some kind of upper that leaves one swimming and floating at the same time and he rides the wave of euphoria to the fullest extent.  He pushes Mundy away and back so that the taller man's knees hit the bed and he falls onto it.  René falls to his knees and moves in, spreading those long legs in front of him and burying his face between them, aggressively yet mindful of delicate bits beneath the denim.

Mundy reaches out to cradle René's head with one hand: his eyes look cloudy and unfocused.

He made an offer that Mundy accepted and he intends to make good.  He unzips the tight jeans that the Australian wears and pulls them down insistently, making sure to pull the underwear away as well.  And there it is: Mundy's beautiful, perfect cock.  Standing at attention, rock-hard and begging to be sucked.  It's like he's been given some sort of prize for making in through the past ten years.  

Mundy looks like only a small portion of his brain is functional: his mouth hangs open and his expression now is almost blank.  He stares into René's eyes like he's dying of thirst and the Frenchman is a glorious oasis in the distance.    

René takes that beautiful cock into his mouth and sinks down deep, deciding to forego any teasing or tension-building.  Mundy moans like he's been punched; it's forceful and desperate and torturous.  He even looks shocked.  He's mumbling words of encouragement and soft terms of endearment under his breath, "Nng, that's good…  that's beautiful, love… ahh God yeah, just like that love…"

René hasn't given a blow-job in years, but all of his little tricks come back to him as he bobs his head up and down, flicking his tongue back and forth to wring those delicious noises out of Mundy as often as he can.  René revels in the perfect, heavy weight in his mouth and moans around it, sending vibrations dancing up Mundy's cock.  

The Australian is cradling René's head so tenderly, running fingertips over his jaw and ears and through his hair to scratch lightly across his scalp.  His eyes droop shut in bliss and a part of him thinks it's ridiculous to be this happy and content while sucking a cock, but another part of him thinks, "well what's better than this?"

It must have been a while for Mundy as well, because it seems like only minutes before there's an urgency in his voice that can only mean he's getting close.  To his credit, he does warn René.  At first with little taps to his jaw and then with sentence fragments.  "René… close… I'm close… you..."

They connect eyes for a moment, understanding dawning in Mundy's face and that's what pushes him over the edge as René bobs quicker, using his hand to stroke what he can't fit into his mouth.  

Mundy cries out and growls, bucking his hips only slightly as he comes down René's throat.  René relaxes and swallows every last drop, holding Mundy in his mouth and gently mouthing at him until the aftershocks have subsided.  A fine sheen of sweat has broken out on both their brows and René knows his face is as red as Mundy's.  He lets Mundy slip free of his mouth and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as genteelly as possible while the taller man huffs for breath, slumped over on the bed.

René wonders if he should go before it gets awkward again.  

He jumps when Mundy slaps a hand on the back of his neck and drags him close.  "My turn."

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

The Australian kisses him again and René idly wonders if Mundy can taste himself and if he even cares.  There's a bit of pushing and shifting and René is underneath him on the bed, flat on his back as Mundy continues to plunder his mouth.  

Mundy grips his shoulders tightly in his large hands, pinning him firmly to the bed.  René realizes very quickly that he absolutely adores kissing this man; anyone with a bit of experience can tell you that a good kisser is hard to find in this world.  It's either too much tongue or not enough, too soft or too rough… but this.  This is perfect.  Their mouths fit together and their tongues caress each other in just the right way… it's addicting and intoxicating and René would do this for hours, but Mundy seems to have other plans.

The taller man makes his way down René's prone form, biting here and kissing there while his hands tug on the pajama bottoms that separate him from his goal.  René arcs his hips up and his last garment is removed; exposing him to Mundy's gaze.  His heart was pounding before, but now it feels like a steady hum; if he were to lift his hands from the bed they would shake.  

Mundy takes in a the view for only a moment and looks back up at René with a lopsided grin.  "Very nice," he says just before he takes the hard cock firmly into his mouth and sinks down quickly, blindsiding René with a very effective deep-throat.  

The Frenchman manages an undignified squeak and whimper as he looks away and to the ceiling instead.  If he looks directly at the wonderful thing that's happening to him, he'll finish immediately and completely ruin the moment.  He wants this for just a little longer.  Just a little.  The warmth and tightness of Mundy's mouth feels heavenly; it's perfect and he tries not to thrust but his self-control is slipping away from him with every movement of that talented tongue.  He tries to be quiet and hold onto his dignity, but he feels gentle fingers caress his thighs and slip down to his balls and tease the skin there and it's too much… it's too much.  

He's still worked up from giving Mundy a blow-job and he had no time to steel himself for this type of pleasure.  He finds the strength to control his shaking hands and runs a gentle thumb down Mundy's face.  

"J'aime quand tu fais ça," he manages between breaths, which are coming faster now.  Shit, he may have said that in French, it's hard to remember. 

Mundy hums, bobbing his head just a bit faster and rolling René's sac in his hand.  A thought flits across René's mind: Mundy has clearly done this before.  And not just once, either.

René bucks, "Ung, _fuck_!  Je… mon dieu, je jouis, je jouis--"  His fingers clench in Mundy's hair and it's happening; he's coming and he's coming hard.  Bolts of pleasure run through his spine down into his cock and he cries out when Mundy grips him harder everywhere and _sucks him down_ \-- 

He can't help it: he screams, but only for a second.  He feels Mundy swallow around him and the movement of tongue and throat around him is absolutely the icing on the cake.  He gets control of his own voice as the orgasm dies off, but he's panting like he's just run a mile and a fine sweat has broken out over his entire body.  He feels light-headed and like he could fall asleep right now, every nerve in his body is tingling.

Mundy slides up his body, placing small kisses along the way and it makes René marvel to see how affectionate and sweet the gesture is coming from someone who looks like this man does.

Post-orgasm shivers run through him as Mundy touches him, and they settle next to each other on the too-thin bed, sheepish grins on both their faces.  

Mundy adjusts them both so that René's head rests comfortably on his left shoulder and the ease with which they lean against each other and fit together on the bed speaks more of two people who have been together for years.  René idly runs his fingers through Mundy's chest hair and traces the tattoos he finds scattered over the tanned skin while they catch their breath.  Black blocks of ink that form the shapes of various animals: lizards, a spider, a shark.  He wonders what the story is behind each of them.  

"You ok?" The taller man asks after they've had a few moments.

René huffs a small laugh, grateful that he does not have to be the one to speak first.  "I feel… better than I have in a long time.  I really want a cigarette, though."

"Of my many vices, that ain't one of 'em, can't help you there."  There is a contemplative pause.  "René Bellamy," he hums.  "You surprise me.  Didn't think I was your type."

"Don't be stupid," he smiles.  "Of course you are.  You're kind and handsome and funny…"

"Flatterer."

"Well, you are.  You're also tall.  I like my men tall," he purrs, leaning in close to kiss Mundy's neck.  "I would not have pegged myself as your type either.  Speaking of surprises."  

"I have many types.  Been with more women than men, Oz being the way it is.  Think I lean more towards men though, honestly."  He looks up at the ceiling and rubs René's back idly.  "I like someone with a brain, I like nice eyes, a fancy accent always was a weakness of mine…"

"Fancy," René laughs.

"Oui, oui, I am Fronch, hon hon, le baguette!"

"Oy maaate.  Noi worries maaate, croikey."

They dissolve into easy laughter and the giddiness René feels reminds him of how things used to be when he was younger.  When he would laze about all day with his man-of-the-month, talking about nothing and being carefree together.  Before Christopher ruined everything and turned him into a cranky old man with no friends.  In that moment, he's overcome with happiness and regret at the same time.  

Mundy pulls him from his thoughts with a gentle nudge under the chin.  "Let's do this again… real soon."

 

*****

 

It's Tuesday, and René can't remember ever loving a Tuesday so much.  His co-workers notice him smiling for no reason.  His students actually manage to make him laugh and he rewards them by easing up on the night's homework.  

On his lunch hour, he eats a sandwich that he had made that morning while standing next to Mundy as they talked about nothing in particular.  How silly it is to be made happy by eating a sandwich but there you go.  That's what he has become: a smiling fool.  

The ever-present, niggling voice of doubt in the back of his mind reminds him not to get carried away.  _So you slept together, big deal.  Don't start thinking this is a permanent situation anyway; he has a home and it's 3000 miles away.  And what are you, in love?  This is your friendly reminder that it's only been 4 days.  People don't just fall in love in 4 days._

That voice was beginning to get annoying. 

That night, they fall asleep on the couch watching old movies from the 40's.  

 

_*****_

 

Wednesday.  

When they get home from work, they make dinner together and retire immediately to René's bedroom this time.  It's Mundy's idea to get into bed naked and press their bodies tightly together so he can wrap a hand around both of their cocks and stroke them languidly to completion.  René comes while kissing him, and Mundy comes while breathing hotly into René's neck.  

They talk about books they've read and liked, though Mundy is not much of a reader.

"The letters turn over and jumble together and my brain mixes 'em all up.  My dad thinks it's from when I fell off my bike when I was a little ankle-biter."

René squints at him.  "What?  No, that's quite common.  Do you lose your place sometimes if the page bends?"

The startled expression could only mean 'yes.'  "How'd you know that?"

"That just sounds like dyslexia, Sniper," he explains.  "It's not from an injury, you don't have brain-damage."

Mundy processes this new information with a deeply off-put expression.  "Christ.  My dad really had no fuckin' idea what he was talkin' about, did he?"

Mundy leans over the edge of the bed and produces a fresh pack of cigarettes.  They share a post-sex smoke just before they drift off to sleep.

 

*****

 

Thursday and Friday keep René a bit busy at school with parent-teacher conferences and staff meetings.  When he gets home on Friday night, late after making sure everything that needed to be done before the weekend got done, Mundy had take-out ready and on the table.  Nothing fancy; a full chicken with the standard sides.  But for dessert he had brought home an entire chocolate mousse cake.

"Is there such a thing as a one-week anniversary?"  He jokes, and René blushes because it's so corny but he feels the same need to celebrate it.  

 

*****

 

It's now been two weeks since the debacle at the church picnic and René has seen neither hide nor hair of Helen Cross since.  The fervent gossip about that day seems to have died down, according to Shu at the coffee shop (who has become René's eyes and ears on the street).  

He hopes that maybe it was the final clue she needed to give up her misguided pursuit, and that she'll no longer be a factor in his life.  Wouldn't that be grand?

But the doorbell rings when Mundy is working at the garage on a Sunday afternoon.  And of course, that would be when she shows up; when René is home alone.

When he opens the door, she's there; standing stock-still like a marble statue.  She's impeccably dressed as always, and with her is a young woman who is modestly dressed in a knee-length skirt and a nice blouse.  He recognizes her; it's Helen's personal assistant and caretaker of her estate.  Ms. Pauling, that's her name.  He hasn't interacted with her much, but from what he can deduce, she has to be some sort of living saint to put up with the terrible woman she calls her boss.  In her hands is a manila envelope and she looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.

"René, after the way you treated me at the picnic I can't say it's a pleasure to see you again."  She speaks in a sharp, clipped tone.

"I can't say it's ever a pleasure to see you, Helen."  

His inner voice has a mini heart-attack.  Ms. Pauling's eyes go wide for a moment.  Helen's lip curls up.

"I can see your _cousin_ has indeed rubbed off on you.  It's a shame, you used to be such a nice man."  She inspects her nails with a look of disinterest.  

René knows what she means.  He used to let himself be intimidated.  Well, no more.

"I can only assume," she speaks again with a breezy tone, "that you don't really know who he is.  I'm certain he's lying to you.  I'm certain you think he's… quirky.  Mysterious, even.  Misunderstood."

"I don't believe you have any right to speak of him in such a derogatory tone."  He takes a step out onto the porch.  "I'll have you know he's a decent, kind man and that's more than I can say for you."

She drops her hands to her side.  "Oh, René."  Her tone is dramatic with an edge of heartbroken.  "My dear, I'm so sorry.  But he's _not_.  I knew this wasn't you.  No wonder you're confused, you poor thing.  He has you all mixed up and it really is a shame.  That's what men like him do, you know."  Her voice lowers to a whisper.  "They seek out the good and the trusting and take advantage until there's nothing left.  You know all about that, don't you?"

He remembers that morning ten years ago: waking up to a cold bed, an even colder note and finding out his bank account had been emptied.  

"Helen, I am in no mood for games.  Say what you mean to say and please leave."  There is an awful pain in his gut that he hasn't felt in weeks and he's beginning to associate it directly with her.

"Ms. Pauling."  

The young lady steps forward and hands him the envelope, pausing to give him what he can only interpret as an apologetic look before she steps back again.

"Please look through it, René.  I hired the best men to find out about him and I fear for your safety.  And I fear for the safety of this town."  Helen turns on her heel and leaves without another word.

Ms. Pauling looks up again.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Bellamy.  I tried… well I tried to talk her out of this, but…"

"Don't fear," he lays a hand on her shoulder.  "This is nothing, I'm sure."  

"It's," she begins, but cringes.  "It's not nothing.  I'm sorry."  She leaves as well, following Helen down the walkway.

René reenters his house and resists the urge to slam the door loud enough for Helen to hear.  

He opens the envelope and inspects the first page.  Some sort of research acquired by a private investigation company.  The first few pages are police arrest records, all from Australia.  Petty theft, property damage, drunk and disorderly conduct.  Nothing he didn't expect, really.  Bar-fights, speeding, driving without a license.  

There is a mugshot.  So that's what Mundy looked like when he was younger.  Very much like he does now, but with fewer lines on his face.  In the mugshot, he wears a sullen expression, and there's a bruise marring half his face.  His hair is clipped very short and it makes his ears look huge.  

The next document is an outstanding warrant for his arrest.  It's dated January 5th, which was a mere 9 months ago.  

 

Michael Lawrence Mundy

Age: 37

Height: 6'2"

Weight: 170 pounds

Eyes: Brown

Hair: Brown

 

Wanted for Murder in the 1st Degree.  

 

*****

 

René feels himself go pale.  He loses feeling in his hands and his knees go weak.  He has to put the papers down.  He has to look away.

Something about a gunshot to the head.  Something about a high calibre hunting rifle.  Suspicion of being hired to do it.  Well-known member of nefarious Hale's Angels.  Alias: Sniper.  

He'd slept with a murderer.  Mundy lied.  He _lied_.  He… he wasn't on a road trip, he was on the run.  He had fallen for it, he had fallen for _him_.   He'd let a murderer stay in his house, make him food, say sweet things to him and talk about life as if he hadn't violently ended someone else's less than a year ago.

René barely makes it to the bathroom before he's losing his breakfast into the toilet.  The pain in his stomach has increased 10-fold and this is the onset of a definite panic-attack.  

The urge to cry is overwhelming, but he resists.  He resists out of one last shred of hope.  One last desperate stab at sanity.

It could be fake.  This could all be an elaborate ruse to drive away the best thing that's happened to him since… ever.  He wouldn't put it past Helen to do something like that.  She's evil, she's underhanded, she's creative and she's sadistic…

But she's right.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

Time, as it often does, passes.  René has spent the last few hours holed up in his bedroom, chain-smoking out the window and almost pulling his hair out.  It's a beautiful evening; the trees are vibrant and orange, the air smells like chimney smoke and a pie that someone down the street is letting cool on their window.

 

He rests his arms out the window and feels the breeze filter through his fingertips.  He rests his head on his arms and stares at the sky; a cobalt gray of solid cloud that cools the earth by blocking out the sun.  René likes this weather, actually.  He much prefers it to Summer, anyway.  Hot weather does not agree with him; sweating and sunburn may be enjoyable for some people, but René prefers the bite of a cold wind and bundling up in warm clothes.  

 

The sound of a motorcycle's engine, so familiar after only two weeks, can be heard down the street and René feels his stomach sink.  He makes no move to get up or leave his bedroom.  He's just going to stay there until he has a better idea of how to function, but until then staring out the window seems just fine.

 

He takes a drag off his cigarette and stares, listening to the engine cut off.  He hears the front door open downstairs, and heavy booted footsteps across the floor.  Mundy calls out, looking for him.

 

He doesn't answer.

 

It's followed by a long silence.  By now, Mundy has definitely found the dossier on him sitting on the dining room table where René left it.  He wonders what the Australian is thinking right now.  Perhaps he's devastated, maybe he's boiling with anger.

 

Just in case, René has locked the door to his bedroom.

 

He hears a soft utterance; a curse.  Mundy is definitely not happy.

 

"René?"  Mundy calls up the stairs, and there's an edge of fear to the voice if he's not mistaken.  Mundy comes up the stairs and his footsteps don't sound angry; just careful.  There is a gentle knock on the door.  "René…"  

 

"Please leave me be," he finally finds his voice: dry and cracked from the cigarettes and cool air.  

 

"Where did those papers come from?"

 

"Does it matter?"

 

A pause.  "Was it that _woman_?"

 

"Of course."

 

Mundy curses, pulling out a few choice words that didn't belong in polite society.  "Just… let me explain.  It's not how you think, I swear."

 

"Did you kill that man?"  He can't keep the anger out of his voice.  How could it possibly not be what it obviously is?

 

Mundy sighs helplessly behind the door.  "Yes."

 

René flinches and hides his eyes in one hand.  He says again, "Leave me alone."  

 

"Please, just… _shit_.  Just give me a chance.  Let me explain.  It wasn't… fuck, it wasn't just random."

 

"Oh, well then."  The sarcasm and bitterness rolls off his tongue, and a part of him admits it feels good to get angry.  How dare this man put him through this?

 

He hears Mundy pace and swear under his breath.  "Can I come in?"

 

"No."

 

"Well, will you come out?"

 

René seriously considers saying no.  It would serve Mundy right, having to explain himself through a locked door.  He thinks back on the times he affectionately called the man "Sniper" and his gut rolls at the thought.  It all seems so obvious now and he feels like a fool.  

 

Instead, he stubs his cigarette out on the windowsill.  "Wait for me on the porch.  I'll be out soon."  Vague instructions, yes.  But this whole thing was rather sudden, wasn't it?

 

There is a moment of hesitation outside the door.  "Okay."  Says Mundy, and there's the sound of boots walking away from the door, down the steps and straight out the front door.  

 

*****

 

René finishes another cigarette before he stands up and steels himself for the conversation he's about to have.  

 

Mundy is sitting on the top step of the porch, elbows balanced on his knees as he stares into the street.  He doesn't turn his head as René steps out of the front door, but his shoulders bunch up just a little higher. 

 

When René takes a seat next to him, leaving a fair bit of distance between, he sees that Mundy looks awful.  He's pale and his expression is the darkest René has ever seen it.  

 

"Go on then," René prompts quietly.

 

Mundy runs a hand through his hair and removes his sunglasses.  "Saxton Hale… was not a good person."

 

*****

 

I mean, neither was I.  But _he_ was something else.  

 

We called Saxton Hale 'The Father' because he was the leader of the whole outfit.  His grandfather Barnabus had started the motorcycle club back in the day, handed off the reigns to his son Bilious when he got cancer and had to give up riding.  Bilious was the one who wanted to club to be more than just bike enthusiasts.  He wanted power.  He already had the loyalty of the entire club; they would do anything for the Hale family.

 

You have to understand, a lot of these guys came from nothing.  No food, no friends, no family, no home.  Sometimes all they had was a bike.  But the club would take them in and call 'em family and get them on their feet.  

 

Anyway.  Bilious was a mean old bastard and that's when the club started with the drug dealing and gun smuggling.  Some of the boys recruited women for prostitution.  There was blackmail, and payoffs and bribery with the cops so they'd leave us alone and Hale's Angels became pretty untouchable.  

 

That's why I wanted to join them.  I was a sheep-herder's kid who couldn't read and wanted to kiss boys and hated my father.  I just… felt small.  There was no place for me as I was, so I wanted to be someone else.  Someone tough and respected.  I wanted friends and I wanted… it doesn't matter.  I joined because I didn't have any better options.  

 

By that time, Saxton Hale had taken over and he was continuing his father's vision.  Saxton was enormous.  Easily a head taller than me and three times as big.  He could have taken anyone in the the club in a bare-knuckle fight.  Hell, he probably could have taken any _five_ of us.  He had a rule that if someone went against him, you were either out of the club or he would beat the shit out of you until he felt like the debt was paid.  Not a lot of people ever did wrong by the club, but when given the choice, they'd let Saxton cripple them rather than be tossed out.  He could break a man's femur easy as looking at it.  So you can imagine, we were all pretty firmly under his thumb.  

 

No one even _said_ anything when he he accidentally killed one of the working girls.  

 

He liked 'rough trade' sex… my heart broke for that poor Sheila.  I never paid for it myself but she seemed like a nice girl.  Deserved better.  

 

And then the bastard did it again.  We knew that even if the first one had been an accident, the second one definitely wasn't.  

 

It was eating me up inside.  I kept thinking about them… and what that evil piece of shit must have done to them.  I couldn't sleep, I lost weight.  For the first time ever, I was questioning the club.  Kept it to myself of course, but even that was something I never thought I'd do.  

 

The club kept it quiet: paid off the cops and the investigators, hush money was tossed around to anyone with information.  It barely even made the news.  

 

When it happened a third time, I… I sort of lost my mind for a little while.  Drank myself stupid.  Started a lot of fights… almost wrecked one night on the way home.  Pure luck I didn't wipe out and kill myself.  

 

I found her family.  They had no idea who had killed their little girl or why.  The cops wouldn't tell them anything, no one would help them.  I told them everything and the fact that they didn't turn me in on principal is something I still can't quite believe to this day.  

 

They weren't poor, really.  They had some money.  They said if I took care of Saxton, they'd  pay me enough to get away.  Get out of the country.  

 

I agreed.  I swore to them… I swore I'd take care of it.  Her father shook my hand.

 

The club called me Sniper because I never miss.  The club owned and managed a shooting range where we spent a lot of time and that's where I earned my handle.

 

I never miss.  I stole a rifle from the range, hid in the woods behind his house and waited until he was alone and I had a clear shot.  

 

Got him right through the head.  Boom.  He didn't see it coming.  He probably didn't even feel it.  Part of me wishes… wishes I could have let him know why.  Made him realize that he deserved it.

 

But there was no time.  I went back to the girl's family and they gave me all the cash they could scrounge up.  Hopped on a plane that night.  Didn't say goodbye to anyone, not even my parents.  Landed in California and bought a bike.  Been travellin' ever since then.  The part about getting robbed was true.  They took the rest of the money.  But my dad had this old friend, Jed Conagher.  When the Conagher family came to Australia looking to get their hands on Australium for their company's inventions, my Dad was the only one who let them dig on his land.  They sort of became friends after that so I had hoped to borrow some cash from them to get to New York.

 

But they weren't around.  

 

And then I met you.

 

*****

 

René didn't say a word as he listened to the story.  It was crazy.  It was unbelievable.  But he believed it.

 

"Why New York?"  A silly question, it didn't even matter.  But he didn't know what else to say.

 

"It's as far away from Oz as possible.  Good place to get fake ID's, forged documents.  Start a new life.  And besides, who doesn't want an exciting New York City life?"  He gives a weak grin, but his heart isn't in it.  

 

There is a looming darkness in René's head.  He can feel pieces of himself shutting down when he says what he says next.

 

"You have to leave."

 

Mundy looks like he's been slapped.  "But… I told you why…"

 

"I know," he admits, losing his nerve every moment.  It physically hurts to speak.  "I can't say I understand but… I feel that what you did was right… even if it wasn't good.  You-- you probably saved more lives, you stopped him from hurting those poor girls.  But the fact is, Helen knows about you and if you don't leave she'll send someone after you.  Whether it be the police or someone in Australia, she will tell them and they'll come for you.  And…"  his voice feels thick with emotion.  "And I couldn't stand to see that happen to you.  I care about you too much."

 

Mundy's eyes fall closed as though he just can't bear to keep them open anymore.

 

"Alright."  

 

*****

 

Mundy packs his things and straps them to the motorcycle.  He mentions something about Tavish letting him stay in the empty apartment above the Tavern for a while, and René holds on to the comforting fact that at least he'll be safe and off the street.  

 

René packs him some food and loans him some clothes.  He says loans, but he knows it's more of a gift.  It's not like Mundy will ever be back to return them.  

 

Mundy hesitates at the front door.  This is the part where they say goodbye. 

 

Instead, he blurts, "Come with me."

 

 _Not this_ , thinks René.  _Please, I had hoped it wouldn't come to this_.  

 

Mundy doesn't let him speak.  "Come with me to New York.  I just… it's only been a few weeks, I know.  This is a stump-stupid thing to do but I can't--"  he grabs René's hand.  "Come on, come with me.  We'll go together."

 

René pulls his hand back.  "Why ask me that?  You know I can't leave, I have a life here."  He feels a bitter anger rise in his throat when Mundy scoffs at him.

 

"A life?  This is not your _life_ , René.  This is not your home: this is just where you landed when you gave up."

 

"How dare you," he shakes his head, disbelieving.  "How dare you insist that 10 years of my life was a waste.  You think I'm that pathetic, do you?  That my life until this point was spent waiting for _you_?"  He yanks his hand out of Mundy's and takes a step back.

 

"Who are your friends here, huh?  Before I turned up, when was the last time you went to a pub and got rotten on whiskey and laughed your arse off?  When was the last time you treated yourself to a nice dinner?  When was the last time you celebrated anything with a chocolate mousse cake?  You love to cook, I've seen you work and it's like you're somewhere else… but you never cook for yourself.  When's the last time you ate like a king?"

 

René feels his face turning red. 

 

Mundy takes a step forward, closing the gap between them again and lowering his voice to a growl.  "When was the last time someone made you scream in French because they sucked your cock so well?"  

 

René pushes him away, hard.  Mundy reels back and catches himself before his head hits the wall.  "I did not give up!  I can have those things without you; just because you're leaving doesn't mean I won't have those things again!  You can't take my life away from me!"  He's screaming now, close to shrieking, but he's so furious he can't bring himself to regulate his voice.  

 

"I _want_ you to have those things,"  Mundy fires back, standing at his full, intimidating height.  "Even if it's not with me!  You deserve those things but this _town_ \-- this town makes you hate yourself and it kills me to think that you'll stay here and hate yourself and just… _exist_ without living."

 

"Fuck you," René spits.  "You just took what we had and threw it in my face, didn't you?  You think you can blackmail me into coming with you?  It's you or nothing, is that it for me?"

 

"No, I--"

 

"Poor little René will waste away here without Micky Mundy, yes?"

 

"No!"  

 

"And what is the alternative?  Quit my job, give up my house, pack up a single bags worth of belongings and hop on the back of your bike?  Go to New York with no job and nowhere to stay?"

 

"You could be a cook again, like you always wanted.  You could…" he scrambles for the words.  "You could go for walks in Central Park, and have lunch at the Carnegie Deli, remember?"

 

René falters and he feels the lump in his throat rise.  There are tears behind his eyes, threatening to escape.  

 

"No, I can't.  I'm sorry, but I can't."  He kisses Mundy once, softly.  Then he leans over and opens the front door.  "Goodbye."

 

Mundy doesn't look angry anymore.  He doesn't even look sad.  He just looks numb.  

 

Without any further discussion, he leaves the house, gets onto his bike, and sits there for a minute.  He starts the engine and drives away.    

 

René goes to bed that night without dinner.  

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

The days pass. 

To everyone currently in his life, René functions and acts just like he always has.  

But he has more difficulty getting out of bed in the morning.  He's never late to work, never a hair out of place; but the effort it takes to sit up and groom himself and drive his car to work seems agonizing and increasingly hard to tackle.    

He finds that his usual order at the coffee shop does not lift his spirits like it used to.  He can recognize that this cup of coffee is particularly good, that the chocolate biscuit on his plate is warm and tasty, but he's unmoved by it.  

There were so few things he enjoyed or looked forward to in life and they were just… fading away.  How long would it be before he enjoyed nothing?

At first he feels angry about it, but the energy to keep that up escapes him.  He just feels… sad.  Maybe Mundy was right.  Maybe he'll just fade away to nothing without some long-legged, leather jacket-wearing motorcyclist to provide him with happiness.  

He still teaches to the best of his ability.  He engages the students and works with them on in-class assignments to make sure they are taking rote memorization and actually comprehending it.  He meets with other teachers and the parents of his students periodically to update them on the progress or lack thereof for each child.  He even chaperoned a dance last week, standing imposingly in the corner and squinting at the boys who perhaps get a little to close to the girls from the visiting school.

The Mid-term exams are finally upon the school.  The tutors encourage their students to relax, the teachers give last-minute study guides in the preceding days, the students manage their time between studying and panicking just like every year and René drifts through it like it's not even happening.  

It doesn't occur to him to call it depression.  

 

*****

 

He passes out the mid-term exam packets to his students and there is a nervous rustling of papers and shuffling of feet until they're all passed out and he tells them they may begin.  He keeps his eyes on them for the first 5 minutes, then opens a book and reads for a while.  He makes a few passes around the room to discourage peeking or other crafty cheating methods and glances quickly at some of the answers the students are writing.  So far, so good.  He can see a few spelling errors, but nothing major.  

He is a bit confused when he finds that Thomas hasn't written anything yet and it's been 15 minutes already.  His heart sinks; he had hoped that this exam would be different.  

The dean of the school hadn't taken kindly to René's suggestion of an altered exam for Thomas, as predicted.  René made the best case he could for it, but he couldn't get the dean to abandon the notion that it was special treatment.  And so the idea was shot down unceremoniously and unfairly.  

He breathes a small sigh of relief when Thomas finally picks up his pencil and starts to write.  The young man's brow furrows in concentration and he doesn't stop writing for a full 40 minutes until the time is up.  He skims his work until René collects the exams.  

The children dash out of the classroom when the bell rings and the temptation is too strong; he pulls Thomas' exam from the pile and begins to grade.  As he flips through the pages, he notes that Thomas took his advice and wrote out some conjugations on the back of the test.  He hopes it helped.  

By the time he's done grading, his suspicions are confirmed: Thomas got a B+.  

René is flabbergasted.  In three semesters of French, Thomas hasn't managed to achieve anything higher than a C- on an exam ever.  Until today.  The joy he feels is palpable and startling: such a spark of warmth that penetrates the shell of cold and numbness.  

He stands from his desk and goes to find Thomas.  He finds the boy outside with his friends waiting for the bus.  He pulls Thomas aside and almost laughs when he sees the resulting terrified expression.  "Don't worry," he holds the test up and watches Thomas spot the B+ circled in red at the top of the paper.  His jaw drops and he looks to René for confirmation, like maybe this is a joke. 

"Congratulations, _formidable_!  What changed?" He asks the boy, dying to know what inspired this turn-around.

Thomas grabs the test and does a little dance of joy.  "Oh man, Dad's gonna flip out!  One of his mechanics told me about how he used to do this thing where he read every question on the test before he even picked up the pencil, and that way he wasn't surprised or something?  I dunno, he said it was something he used to do when he was a kid cuz he couldn't read very good.  Weird, but it worked, I can't believe it worked!"  

René knows immediately that Mundy must have given the boy that particular piece of advice and his good mood wilts.  He keeps the smile on his face for Thomas' sake but he suddenly feels the very urgent need to leave the conversation.  He congratulates Thomas again and goes back inside to grade the rest of the exams.  

The knowledge that Mundy is living and working just a few miles away is torture.

 

*****

 

His house is completely devoid of food and yet it still takes him three hours to muster the energy to drive to the market.

When he arrives, it's too cold, too bright, and too noisy.  He hates being here and he wants to finish this as quickly as possible.  But he also doesn't want to have to come back any time soon, so he resolves to stock up on everything to maximize the time between shopping trips.  He claims a cart and fills it to the brim with the essentials.  Bread, eggs, pasta, some produce, a few bottles of inexpensive wine, meat from the deli counter and other basic staples for survival.  

Something funny happens inside him when he passes the specialty aisle; the one with the exotic, imported, rare and expensive products.  He normally never travels down this aisle as everything in it is overpriced and unnecessary.  

But today, he makes a sharp turn with his cart and ventures through. 

The average cost per item skyrockets in this aisle and he browses disinterestedly until his eyes fall on the small jar of black truffle shavings.  An extravagance to be sure: it's phenomenally pricey per ounce, but he selects a jar and inspects it.  

A memory occurs to him: back in NYC when he worked as a chef, his specialty was Cromesquis with Foie Gras.  More than a few food critics raved about it, when biting through the crispy breaded outside and into the creamy interior, the foie gras and black truffle would melt down your throat and it quickly became his signature appetizer.  He remembers meticulously using gelatin to secure the ingredients inside before being cooked and the care with which he would chop the truffle and spoon the perfect portion of foie gras into the floured squares.  It was his art, his masterpiece.  

He puts the small jar of black truffle in his cart.

Then he retrieves some foie gras from the refrigerator section.  

 

*****

 

He ignores how much money he just spent while putting the food away and gathers the needed ingredients on the counter at home.  He throws on an apron and rolls up his sleeves.  Time to go to work.  

 

*****

 

Two hours pass before he knows it and he's staring at 60 of these perfect hors d'oeuvres, arranged meticulously on the counter.  He's a bit rusty: some of them fell apart in the oil, but not too many.  He puts 5 of them on a plate and selects one that looks particularly good.

As he pops it in his mouth, his eyes slip shut at the glorious flavor and the memories roll over him in waves.  His life in New York: getting dressed every day for work, sometimes arriving before the sun came up to do prep work in the kitchen.  He remembers the other cooks speaking to him in broken English: it was the only language they all had in common.  He remembers laughing when the dishwashers said crude things, apologizing to one of the waitresses when he lost his temper and made her cry, nearly losing his mind when some charlatan ordered a well-done steak, getting to take home the pastry chef's culinary experimentations at the end of the night, having cheeseburgers delivered for dinner because they were all so tired of the free meals provided by the restaurant…

He wipes a tear from his cheek and smiles.  These stupid hors d'oeuvres actually made him happy for just a moment.  

 

*****

 

René packs up the rest of the Cromesquis and brings it to the school the next day.  He thinks he's actually the first person to use the stove in the teacher's lounge: he can't think of an occasion when anyone actually cooked in their kitchen.  He flips on the burners and places a skillet from home over the flame.  These were not the sort of appetizers you heat up in the microwave.  

They are an unparalleled hit with the staff.  Every single teacher in the school catches wind of the delicacy offered in the lounge and they crowd around for a taste.  The reviews are all astoundingly good.  He gets a lot of the same comments proclaiming total shock that René could cook, and how he should be a chef.  

He accepts the compliments as graciously as he can and retreats back to his classroom when the pressure of interacting becomes too much.  He feels exhausted already and the day is only half over.

It becomes apparent that his unexpected treat for the teachers has inspired them to become interested in his life.  Mikhail, the enormous hulk of a history teacher, comes to his classroom between periods and invites him out to drinks with himself and some of the other teachers.  René knew that sometimes teachers gathered together at a bar to unwind with some drinks, but had never thought to ask if he could join.  And as it turns out, the other teachers had invited him once, years ago but were rebuked and figured that his intense affection for privacy would keep that answer the same always.  But Mikhail is brave and friendly and unafraid to be told 'no' so he figured he would try one more time.  

There is a burning desire to say no.  He wants to go home and just be alone until he goes to sleep.  

But a small piece of him perks up and tells him to try something new.  The small piece of him that yearns for human contact and stimulation. 

 

*****

 

The bar the teachers frequent is not nearly as homey or warm as Tavish Tavern, but at least the music is tolerable and the lighting is not too garish.  Overall it gets René's silent seal of approval.  

Mikhail and Hans the biology teacher volunteer to retrieve the first round and they take the drink orders as if it's an honor.  René's fears over awkward conversation and feeling left out turn out to be entirely unfounded: the other teachers don't crowd him, but keep him involved in the conversation and it seems to come quite naturally to them.  After a few drinks, conversation comes easier, and René counts it as a major accomplishment when he makes the group laugh a few times.  

No one asks about his "cousin" and the church picnic debacle.  He's eternally grateful and shows it by buying the next round of drinks.  

 

*****

 

Things get a little better.  René tackles each day one at a time.

Sometime in mid-November he mentions as casually as he can manage to Thomas DeGroot that he should thank the mechanic for the good advice.  Thomas has conquered his fear of tests and his grades are rising slowly but steadily without the stray low grades pulling them down.  

"Oh man… I really should have done that before he left."

"He… you mean he doesn't work for your father anymore?"  

Thomas shrugs.  "I haven't seen him lately.  He must have quit or something."

And there it is.  Mundy really is gone.  Probably saved enough money to get out of town and continued his journey to the East Coast.  

It's impossible to accurately describe what he feels.  Is this despair because he's gone?  Or relief that it's over?  It would be foolish to deny that he misses the man.  He does.  

He misses him very much.  

 

*****

 

The doorbell rings one evening just after René has finished his dinner: a roasted duck with an orange sauce and all the trimmings.  

When he opens the door, Helen is standing there with an envelope in her hands.  

"René darling," she coos, and he almost sneers at the simpering tone.  "I feel just awful about how we left things, and I wanted to bury the hatchet by inviting you to a Thanksgiving dinner party I'm hosting.  It will be simply _lavish_ , I'm sparing no expense.  And I'd like you to be my guest of honor.  What do you say?"

She holds out the envelope and he opens it to reveal the official invitation to the party.  It's hand-written in a calligraphic font and the borders are inlayed with gold leaf.  This one is addressed specifically to him, complete with his full name and it just reeks of _class_.  He hates it.

Something in his brain clicks.  There's no fear left, he realizes.  He lost something that was actually important to him and he survived.  This?  This is nothing.

He takes the invitation in two fingers, holds it out and lets it drop at Helen's feet.  "Helen, you'll be happy to know that as a homosexual Jew, I cannot accept this invitation.  I'm sure you understand."

Without another word, he slams the door in her face.  He did catch a glimpse of her horrified expression and it brings him no small bit of joy.  He can hear her squawking at him as he walks away from the front door but can't make out any of the individual words.  It doesn't matter what she's saying.  Nothing she does matters.  Not anymore.    

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

René doesn't recall a New Year's party that he actually enjoyed.  Besides this one, of course.  

 

Mikhail throws a party at his home that is practically wall to wall food.  As a potluck, everyone brings a dish but as often happens, everyone brings far too much and the party is laden with about a hundred different plates of food.  From appetizers to main courses to side dishes to finger foods and desserts, extra bottles of wine and far too many nice bottles of liquor, René has never eaten so much in one sitting.  

 

He's grown closer to the teachers over the past few months and finds that socializing is becoming just a little bit easier.  Mikhail and Hans especially seem to click with him, they both have their own quirky habits and attitudes and seem to embrace René's inherent otherness with ease.  Mikhail is enormous and overbearingly friendly while Hans is completely unable to keep his enthusiasm for science under control for more than 10 minutes at a time, but while René may have shied away from these men before, he's much more open to people he used to find intimidating.

 

And it's paid off, really.  René feels less and less lonely as the months progress.  Sometimes his moods feel dark and rainy, and then his phone will ring and Hans invites him over to teach him to cook.  Or René will be sitting at home and realize he hasn't left the house for 6 days unless it was to go to work, so he invites Mikhail to go food shopping.  The large man often needs to buy more food than he can carry, and René is happy to lend the use of his car.  

 

All in all, it's nice to have friends.  

 

René still feels a bit awkward at parties, though.  True, everyone is friendly enough, but he's had so many introductions that it's starting to wear on his nerves.  So he feels an equal amount of relief and surprise when he spots Ms. Pauling across the room.  Their eyes meet and they gravitate towards each other through the crowds of people.  

 

There is a moment of tension, but it passes when she holds out her hand.  "It's good to see you again, René."

 

"You as well.  How do you know Mikhail?"

 

"I'm friends with his sister Zhanna, she invited me.  And then she disappeared, so I've been holding up the wall and eating mini-hot dogs for about an hour."  She laughs and shrugs, looking embarrassed.  

 

"I know how you feel," he hums.  "I talk a good game, but I'm not what you would call a social butterfly.  It's exhausting."

 

"Listen, René…" she rubs her neck with one hand.  "I wanted to let you know, I'm sorry for what happened with your friend.  I tried to talk Helen out of it but… well, you know.  I wanted to hinder the research, but she hired all of these detectives and there was really nothing I could do.  I just feel really lousy about it, because I know he left the same day… and no one saw much of you for a while."  She glances up cautiously, and René gets the feeling she knows more than she's saying.  

 

"Well," he starts.  "It's not your fault, is it?  You did what you could, which is far more than I could have possibly asked for.  In the end… at least she can't do anything to him now."

 

"True.  Also I… well, I'm going to resign.  I just can't work for her anymore.  I mean, the money's good.  The money's great, in fact.  But I'm just miserable all the time and the money doesn't cancel it out anymore."

 

René nods, good for her.  

 

A thought occurs to him.  It's crazy and it might be asking too much, but it's worth a shot.  "Do you, by any chance, still have access to those private investigators?"

 

"Oh sure, I've got all their contact info still.  Why?"

 

He's about to speak, but Mikhail thunders from the far corner of the house, " **Is time for New Year!  Come, come!!** "

 

They all gather in the living room around the television and count along with the newscaster as the last seconds of the year slip through their fingers and melt away.  Mikhail passes out glasses of champagne and manages to get everyone a glass just when the clock starts the countdown from ten.  When the clock strikes midnight, the ensuing cheer is deafening, and everyone raises their glasses to sing Auld Lang Syne.  

 

Ms. Pauling says to him over the ruckus, "It's been an interesting year."

 

René clinks his glass of champagne against hers.  "I couldn't agree more."

 

*****

 

Ms. Pauling drops off a manila envelope on René's doorstep on her last day working for Helen.  Even the idea of not working for Helen anymore seems to make her glow a bit, as though having such a terrible boss was adding years to her face and they had suddenly been lifted.  

 

"It's not much," she says.  "But it's something."  She tells him briefly about her plans to go back to school so she can start her own business.  René doesn't doubt that she'll go far.  She has drive, she has smarts, she has everything she needs to beat the competition into submission.  He wishes her all the luck in the world and says goodbye.  

 

There's not a lot in this envelope.  The only thing the investigators had to go on was Mundy's bike.  They ran the license number all over the country and really only came up with one solid lead: The motorcycle with the license plate in question was sold to a dealership in New Jersey, right next to the border of New York.  Mundy had signed his real name to the paperwork, but left an address that turned out to be transient housing, and he was no longer there.  Without a permanent address, it was impossible to track where he was.  

 

End of the line.  Mundy was as good as off the grid.  How ironic to be in one of the most populated places on Earth and completely cut off. 

 

But he was actually in New York City.  He'd made it.  Perhaps he was safe now, with a new identity, working odd jobs to get on his feet or perhaps he'd landed one right away at a garage in Brooklyn or Queens.  Maybe he'd be a barback and work his way up to bartender, serving imported whiskies on weekends and making new friends with a few of the millions who came to New York from other countries seeking happiness and work.    

 

René was saddened at the idea that Mundy had had to sell his bike.  Maybe he traded it in for a better one, though there was no paperwork to suggest he'd re-spent the money at all.  Perhaps he'd used to money to buy forged documents that would pass him off as a citizen and make it easier to get work.  

 

There are a million scenarios that run through his head, some of them good and some of them bad.  He'll just have to trust that Mundy made the best of his luck and opportunities and is happy wherever he is.  

 

He wonders if Mundy will ever get in contact with him again.  He wouldn't blame the man if he never got in contact again with the way they left things.  But a small part of him hopes that the brief few weeks they had each other still mean something to Mundy, even though it didn't work out.

 

The hope for that allows him to sleep that night.  

 

*****

 

Last chapter coming soon

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

It's March 17th and René is getting ready to go out to lunch.  His birthday is actually on Monday, but he wants to celebrate today (Saturday) instead.  He's going to go to his favorite restaurant for a nice lunch and a few cocktails.  He's growing quite fond of a new drink called a Cosmopolitan.  Even though it's bright pink and quite sweet, it's simply delicious and he discovered it on Valentine's day when a lonely woman bought him one in a lovely but ultimately misguided attempt to flirt.  They had a very nice conversation even after René made it clear he wasn't interested, and he kept her company while she told him all about the man who had stood her up that evening.  They shared another two Cosmopolitans each and bid each other farewell, but since then he's been ordering the drink every time he went out.  

The snow is finally starting to melt from the blizzard Teufort had at the end of February.  Two feet dumped on the ground in one night lead to two days off of school, and the ensuing icy roads as the snow melted and froze every day and night lead to even more delays.  Now they were starting to see grass again, though René knows they won't see genuinely nice weather for another month.  

René steps out onto his porch and locks the door behind him, then buttons up his overcoat and pulls on his gloves to fend off the chill.  He's humming "Happy Birthday" to himself when he starts down his front steps and stops dead in his tracks when he spots the figure standing at the end of the walkway.

It's him.

It's _him_.  

His heart pounds, adrenaline surges through his body and he doesn't care how or why or how they parted or what he's been doing or what brought him back; he doesn't care about _anything_.  He bolts down the steps and to the end of the walkway and launches himself right into Mundy's arms, latching onto him so tightly that the threat of a broken rib makes itself known and he knocks the wind from his own lungs.  He doesn't care.  

Mundy holds onto him like he's the only thing that exists; the only thing that will ever matter.  His arms are like two immovable, unbreakable steel bands around René's back, strong and secure.

They don't speak but they cling to each other, both too overwrought with emotion to do anything else but hold on and make sure the other is real.  It's been months; it's been too long.

Mundy is the first one to pull back just far enough, only a few inches, to place one hand gently on René's face, asking permission.  René answers by pulling them both back together for a kiss, and it's such a relief to have this back in his life that he lets out a sigh that's closer to a sob.  Mundy answers it with a similar noise of his own, and the kiss ends with a lingering brush of the lips.  

They stay that way, breathing each other's air, for a few moments.

"You're back," René whispers, trying to find his voice again.

"No way I was staying away.  Couldn't.  Had to come back for you."  His voice is warm and deep and it rumbles through both of them.  

"I'm… I'm sorry for--"

"Nah," Mundy cuts him off.  "I'm sorry for the things I said.  It was nasty and unfair and I've been thinking about what a wanker I was every night for the past few months."

"No, you were right.  I was fading.  I was letting this town kill me, but slowly.  I just-- I just didn't realize it until you said it, and I was angry… because you were right."  He wonders if he ever would have figured that out if Mundy hadn't left.  

"In the past," Mundy says with a hint of finality about it.  "How've you been?  You look good, handsome as ever."  He fixes a stray wisp of René's hair, flattening it back behind his ear where it belongs.

René tsks good-naturedly and decides not to point out that he's gained ten pounds since they last saw each other.  All the cooking he's been doing for himself is therapeutic and helps him stave off his darker moods, but it does have the side-effect of a bit of a soft stomach.  Still, if he had to choose, he'd take the extra pounds over bleak malaise any day of the week.  "I've been well, actually.  I was just off to my favorite restaurant for my birthday.  41, a remarkably un-special year."

"Happy Birthday.  Didn't bring ya a present, hope I'll suffice."

René laughs lightly and finally finds the strength to release Mundy just a little more to take in what's changed about him.  For one thing, he wears a brown leather bomber jacket instead of his old Hale's Angels colors.  It suits him.

For another, he's cut his hair short: so short that it's more of a buzz-cut than anything else.  René smirks and pulls one of his gloves off with his teeth so he can run his bare hand over Mundy's shorn head.  "Different." 

"Yeah," he shrugs a bit sheepishly and runs his own hand over his scalp self-consciously.  "Makes my ears look fuckin' massive, but it was better than wearing a hairnet."

René only has enough time to give him a quizzical look before he finally notices the vehicle in which Mundy traveled to Teufort.  

It's the size of half a school bus, and there are pictures of food plastered on it; a plate of eggs here, a stack of pancakes there.  Actually, it's a menu, complete with prices.  It's… it's…

"It's a food truck." Mundy supplies, seeing René's confused expression.  "Traded the bike in for it and fixed it up myself."

René steps away to get a clearer look at the thing.  There's a large square of metal covering the side that obviously opens up for customers,  It looks freshly painted, clean, only a few dismissible signs of wear-and-tear.  

"Mostly breakfast," Mundy continues, shuffling his feet and filling the silence.  "I can do a few decent sandwiches, but I make most of my money in the wee hours."  He unlocks the back of the truck and pulls open the double doors, stepping up inside.  The truck is thankfully tall enough that he doesn't have to crouch, but it's a close call.  René peeks in at the setup.  There is a large fridge the sits against one side, with a counter above it that snakes around the whole interior.  There's even a little sink.  On the other side of the truck is a hot counter for frying and four small burners and off in the corner is a coffee maker and urn.  Stored on the floor are things that don't need to be kept cold; bags of chips and other snacks.  There are small pots and pans strapped onto a shelf above.  The truck is densely but efficiently packed and it looks like Mundy has a very definite system in place.  

René smiles.  "You're a chef."

Mundy can't help but laugh at that one.  "Nah, but it works and I've had no complaints about the food.  You gave me the idea, you know."

"Our breakfasts together?"

He nods.  "I got real good at eggs and went from there.  I have a breakfast special: two eggs, two strips of bacon, two pieces of toast and a coffee.  It's my biggest seller.  Nothing fancy, I know, but… It's fun and it keeps me fed and…  And it's on wheels so I can pick up and go somewhere else if business is slow."

Mundy steps down out of the truck again and sits on the rear bumper, taking René's hands in his.  René steps closer, between the man's knees and drapes his arms around Mundy's shoulders.  The Australian rests his head against René's chest and imitates the sound of his rapidly beating heart with a chuckle.  

"I wanted…" Mundy begins, but stumbles on his words and has to start again.  "I thought maybe there'd be a way… to be together."

"Mundy,"

"No, I think we could do it.  You don't have to leave, but I can't stay because it's dangerous.  But I was giving it some thought: what if I worked in other towns during the week and came to stay on weekends?  I could leave the truck at DeGroot Garage so it wouldn't attract attention and no one would know I was here.  And during the summer when you're not working, we could do a bit of a holiday, drive somewhere nice where no one knows us?  It's pretty cozy when you line the floor with blankets…"

He looks so earnest, René doesn't have the heart to interrupt him.  

"That could work, right?  You can stay here and I can see you and… ah, listen to me.  Sorry.  Bit of a loony idea, I just had a lot of time to think about it."

"No, no it's a good plan.  Except I have a better one."

"Yeah?"

"I do believe I've had my fill of Teufort.  I hear Chicago is a nice place to live.  Many restaurants in need of a chef, plenty of places to sell your breakfast special."

Mundy stares at him.  It takes a minute to sink it, but he jumps to his feet and grabs René by the shoulders.  "Really?  Yeah?"

René laughs at his intensity and nods; of _course_ he can leave.  That fact seems so obvious now even though it took him so long to figure out.  "It'll take a while, of course.  I have to finish out the year and give my notice, there's paperwork-- oof!"

Mundy traps him in a bear hug so tight that it knocks the air out of him yet again.  "I'll wait, I'll wait, do whatever you need to do."  He sounds a bit choked up and René feels his chest swell with emotions of his own.

"Are you crying?"  He asks.

"Nope."  Answers Mundy.

 

*****

 

That night, when René dreams, it's of all the interesting places he'll visit with Mundy in the funny-looking food truck.  All the sights they'll see together, foods they'll eat and sounds they'll hear.  He dreams of wide-open mountain ranges that are green at the bottom and snowy on top.  Of long roads; veins of asphalt cutting through fields of different colored roses and various crops.  Mom 'n' Pop Diners that only serve the greasiest, most delicious crap food you've ever had the pleasure to eat.  The salty wind of the coasts, with a chill that bites your nose and whips at your hair.

 

He can't wait to get there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The End

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, everyone has just been so amazing. I've never gotten a response like this for a fic and it's been truly inspiring and I just can't tell you how happy I am that you've all enjoyed the fic so much. Leave me a little comment, even if you've never commented before, even if it's only to say "hi" and it would be the best thing ever.
> 
> Thanks again for all the encouragement, compliments, thoughts and various crying jags. Love you guys.


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